Another One Bites the Crust Read online

  When she finished, the Professor sighed and stroked his beard with his fingers. “This is out of character, don’t you agree?”

  We both nodded.

  “Perhaps I should stop by the theater and have a talk with him. As fate would have it I need to have a conversation with him about another matter.”

  “Would you?” Mom looked relieved.

  “Of course, but only if I get the first taste of your royal marchpanes.” He winked at me.

  “We can probably arrange that, don’t you think, Juliet?” Mom asked me.

  “You bet.” I gave the Professor a thumbs-up. “Hey, speaking of Medford, Lance said he was there earlier too.”

  The Professor’s face clouded. “Indeed.” He drummed his fingers on his chin and stared outside for a moment. “I might suggest that you follow the old adage of ‘letting sleeping dogs lie’ when it comes to Lance for the moment.”

  His reaction surprised me. Then again, given Lance’s erratic behavior, maybe it would be better to let the Professor, who exuded a natural calmness, try to talk Lance off the ledge.

  I agreed and excused myself. I figured they might want some privacy and I needed to get back to the kitchen. If Lance ended up going through with his party for the ages then I had some long nights ahead of me. I did love a challenge when it came to baking. Re-creating an Elizabethan menu wasn’t going to be easy, but after seeing how intense Lance had been with Thad and Vera I was resolved to help him however I could. Even if it meant whipping up a batch of (shudder) black pudding or one of the many other authentic desserts on his approved list.

  Chapter Four

  “Is anyone up for late-night baking?” I asked the team after Mom and the Professor left and we closed the shop for the afternoon. “There’s extra cash in the deal.” I explained that I was willing to pay double time and promised tips.

  “Count me in,” Bethany said. “I’m saving up for a new camera and professional studio lights.”

  Stephanie shrugged. “I guess I am, too. It’s not like I’m going to get any sleep anyway.”

  “Are you sure?” I didn’t want her to overextend herself.

  “Yeah, I’m cool.”

  Andy took off his apron. “Wish I could, but I have a hot date, boss.”

  Sterling looked injured. “You do?”

  “Gotcha!” Andy flipped his baseball cap forward. “I’m taking my grandma to dinner.”

  “That’s sweet,” I said, noticing a brief glimmer of relief on Bethany’s face. Could it be that we had not one, but two, budding bakeshop romances?

  “Catch you guys tomorrow.” Andy waved and left.

  “Sterling, what about you? You want to join us for some Renaissance baking?” I asked.

  He glanced in Stephanie’s direction. “Nah, I’ll let you guys have a girls’ night. I’ve got some stuff to do.”

  “I guess it’s us, then,” I said to Bethany and Steph.

  “Do you think you could teach us how to make macarons tonight, too?” Bethany asked as Sterling ducked out.

  “Great idea.” I waved to Sterling. “I’ll order Thai food and we can blast some…” I trailed off. Stephanie shot daggers at me. “No, I take that back. No music. Just delicious food and some serious sixteenth-century baking.”

  We cleared the island and started by reviewing each recipe. I was surprised to find it was much more enjoyable than I had imagined—many of the recipes weren’t radically different than today’s. Not that I intended to admit that to Lance. Bethany found some videos online of one of Stephanie’s favorite British chefs, who specialized in demonstrating traditional methods. We chowed down bowls of spicy yellow curry and pad Thai as we watched the chef meticulously tackle the task of constructing marzipan castles and turrets.

  “That looks pretty cool,” Stephanie said when the video ended. She twisted a strand of her purple hair. “I kind of want to give it a shot.”

  “Consider it yours,” I said, licking my curry bowl clean with a slice of bread. “What about you, Bethany, do any of these recipes look appealing to you?”

  She picked up a recipe for an old English pudding, which was usually made in a mold and more like what we thought of as bread pudding. “You know me. Fine detail isn’t my skill set. I’m much better at baking or taking pics. I could try one of these puddings.”

  “Sounds good. Let’s divide and conquer. I’ll work on a fruit trifle.”

  We worked in an easy rhythm. I checked their progress and offered suggestions about ratios and potential proportion sizes. If the entire company did attend Lance’s party, then we were going to have to size each recipe accordingly. Collaborating with them was seamless. Bethany documented our progress on her phone throughout the night. Stephanie concentrated on her work, and drank cup after cup of coffee.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to call it a night?” I asked, pointing to the clock on the far wall. “It’s after eight.”

  She rubbed her eyes. “Nah, it’ll be worse at my place. At least here I’m doing something productive.”

  “Is it that bad?” Bethany asked, dumping raisins, dates, and figs into a bowl. The smell of bread soaking in sherry and cognac gave the kitchen a holiday smell.

  Stephanie rolled a sheet of marzipan paper thin. “It’s been over a week of no sleep.”

  “Cumulative sleep deprivation is the worst.” I stared at her sallow face. “I think we should send you home. Or, you can come hang out at my apartment. I tend to fall asleep on my couch most nights anyway. I’ll gladly give you my bed.”

  Bethany agreed. “Good idea, Jules. You can come crash with me, too.”

  “No, I’m good.” Stephanie cut the marzipan with a pizza cutter.

  I looked at Bethany, who shrugged. Stephanie was fiercely independent, which often served her well, but with sleepless nights that trait had become a detriment.

  We were about to switch gears and start in on macaron technique when someone pounded on the front door. We jumped in unison. I clutched my heart, which thudded in my chest.

  “Jeez, who is that?” Stephanie asked.

  It was dark outside, but the streetlights cast soft halos on the sidewalk. I peered out the window to see Lance banging on the door.

  “Take a guess,” I said.

  “Lance?” Bethany asked with a look of trepidation.

  “The one and only. Keep at it. I’ll go see what he wants.”

  He didn’t let up on his knocking. “Juliet, I’ve been out here for hours. I was about to break down the door.”

  “Lance, you’ve been outside for one minute and you scared us to death.”

  His top three buttons were undone, his jacket was missing, and he wore a pair of bright red sneakers instead of his leather dress shoes.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, letting him inside.

  He paced to the pastry counter and twiddled his fingers on top of the glass. The nervous cloud of energy surrounding him was palpable. “I had to do something. I’m going to kill him. Seriously kill him, Juliet.”

  “Slow down.” I walked closer.

  The concrete floor trembled beneath us as Lance bounced his foot up and down. “I’ve got a plan. A big plan.”

  “To do what, Lance?” My stomach felt queasy, and I didn’t think it was from the curry.

  “To ruin him,” Lance spat out.

  “Look, we’ve been playing around with your menu tonight. Doing some early recipe testing. Do you want to sit down? I’ll bring you a taste of what we’ve put together so far.”

  He drummed his fingers on the counter and exhaled. “I don’t know if I can sit.”

  “Try.” I placed my hand on his shoulder. “I’ll make you a cup of chamomile tea. You go take a seat in the booth and try to relax.”

  “He looks messed up,” Bethany whispered when I walked into the kitchen.

  I kept my voice low. “I know. I’m going to make him a cup of tea. Can you guys put a small tasting tray together?”

  Stephanie nodded. “I
can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I almost feel sorry for him.”

  “Me too.” I sighed. I filled a mug with water and zapped it in the microwave. Hopefully a cup of calming tea would bring Lance back to center. I took the steaming mug of tea and a plate of our interpretation of sixteenth-century desserts to the front.

  “Here, drink this.” I handed Lance the tea and set the plate in front of him.

  He cradled the mug in his hands for a minute and then without saying a word tasted every dish I set before him including hand-designed royal marchpanes in the shape of popular fruit from the time like figs, dates, plums, and apples.

  “It’s perfect. Perfection,” he said, finishing a bite of layered trifle. His demeanor had shifted radically. He leaned against the booth and stared at the ceiling.

  “Lance, what’s going on?”

  He sat up. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean your outbursts. Showing up here—now—freaking out.”

  “I’m not freaking out.” He cracked his knuckles and savored his tea.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  Lance scowled. “Oh, do keep that chin up. Cheekbones, Juliet. Cheekbones.”

  “Look, Lance, I’m worried about you. Have you thought of taking a little break? Maybe take a vacation? Go get some sun, sip a fruity cocktail on the beach. You’re not acting like yourself.”

  He threw his hand over his heart as if I had stabbed him. “Not acting like myself? Darling, acting is my middle name, and I assure you I’m fine. I need this party to be fabulous and all will be right with the world.”

  “What happened with Antony tonight?”

  He shuddered. “It’s nothing. Like I said, I have a plan. And it’s not going to matter because your pastries are gifts from the gods.” He popped a bite of marzipan in his mouth. “This party is going to solve my problems. Trust me.”

  “That’s putting a lot of faith into one night, Lance.” I sighed and looked at Steph and Bethany who had their heads down, focused on baking. “I can’t even imagine how much it’s going to cost you. Can you afford a party like this?”

  Lance threw his head back and laughed. “Please. You do not need to worry about my financial status. I have a strict rule to never speak of politics, religion, or money with friends. It’s tacky, darling. But I promise you that money is the least of my worries.”

  I wondered what he meant by that.

  “Do you have anything else awaiting my taste buds in the kitchen?” Lance asked, changing the subject.

  “Nope. This is it.”

  “Excellent. In that case, I’ll call it a night. I’m going to write up some notes for my vendors with details and final numbers. Expect an e-mail from me later this evening.”

  It was futile to attempt to reason with him, so instead I picked up the tasting tray and returned to the kitchen. Getting Lance to open up wasn’t going to be an easy task. But I knew that I had to do something. My friend was clearly in bad shape.

  Chapter Five

  “Jules, is he okay?” Bethany tugged on one of her braids. They had cleaned up our sixteenth-century baking mess and had assembled supplies for macarons.

  “I don’t know.”

  “He kind of seems like he’s on the edge,” Stephanie added. “And if I’m saying that right now, that’s terrifying.” Her lip, painted with black lipstick, curled into a snarl.

  I couldn’t argue with them. Instead I let out a sigh and brushed my hands together, as if trying to brush off my worry about Lance. “What do you say, macarons?”

  Professional bakers know that there is a huge difference between macaroons, which are basically coconut balls dipped in chocolate, versus macarons, French sandwich cookies filled with everything from lavender and honey buttercream to pineapple jam. Many bakeries use food dyes to color their macarons, but I prefer to use natural flavors to achieve beautiful colors. Like pureed blueberries for purple and fresh raspberries for a soft, subtle red.

  I handed Steph and Bethany each a mixing bowl and French whip (or whisk). “You want to start by whisking almond flour and confectioners’ sugar together.”

  They obliged and I showed them how to beat egg whites, cream of tartar, and a pinch of salt until frothy and then slowly incorporate superfine sugar and beat until it formed shiny peaks. “Be careful not to break the egg whites as you fold this into the flour and sugar,” I cautioned.

  “Next, go ahead and pick one of the purees to add some color and flavor to your batter.” I lined baking sheets with parchment paper. Soon they each had luscious, pastel batter.

  “What do you think you should do now?” I asked.

  “Pipe the batter?” Bethany sounded unsure in her reply.

  “Close.” I held up my pinkie. “Taste.”

  “Right.” Bethany chuckled. Steph didn’t respond, but she did stick a finger into her batter and look pleased with the final result. I tasted each mixture. No wonder Stephanie had almost cracked a smile. The batter was infused with berry flavor with a hint of almond and scant sweetness.

  “Perfection.” I gave them my seal of approval and demonstrated how to pipe one-and-a-half-inch round circles onto the tray. “You should get approximately twenty-four cookies per tray. But once you finish piping, you’re not quite done yet.”

  “Why?” Stephanie asked, filling her bag with the delicate mixture.

  “These beauties are very particular. It’s one of the reasons that most home bakers seldom try to make them. You have to let the rounds age. It’s crucial. Otherwise you’ll end up with a wet and sticky cookie.”

  “Gross.” Bethany stuck out her tongue.

  “Exactly. Time is your friend. Let them sit and form a nice hard shell, and then you’re almost ready to slide them into the oven.” French macarons had an exquisite texture with a crunchy exterior and soft, chewy finish. Rushing any of the steps would result in a flat, lifeless cookie.

  “Almost?” Stephanie glanced at the clock. “Are we going to be here all night?”

  “No. The final step is to gently tap the tray on the counter a couple of times to release any air bubbles, and then they’re good to go.”

  “Finally,” Bethany scoffed.

  “Yes, but they’ll be worth the effort.” I stood back and let them finish the process.

  Within the hour, we had cheerful stacks of macarons lining the island—minty green cookies filled with white chocolate and a touch of mint, peach-colored cookies filled with a thin layer of buttercream and peach preserves, blueberry cookies filled with lemon curd, and pale pink cookies filled with seedless raspberry jam.

  “Nice work,” I said, appraising the collection of sandwich cookies.

  “Thanks for the tips, Jules.” Bethany broke one of the blueberry macarons in half. “I can’t wait to get some shots of these.”

  I glanced at Stephanie, who was leaning against the counter as if it were the only thing holding her up. “Let’s call it a night. We’ve made great progress. I’ll store these in airtight containers and you two can head out.”

  Stephanie grunted something indistinguishable and trudged to the front door. Bethany followed after her. It didn’t take long to arrange the macarons in large plastic Tupperware. Refrigerating them overnight would allow the cookies to absorb the filling and make them even softer. They would last for three to four days before becoming crumbly. Although I had a feeling they wouldn’t last that long. My best guess was that we’d be sold out by lunch tomorrow.

  I left Torte feeling content that we would be able to manage Lance’s party and that the top shelf of the pastry case would be filled with exquisite spring macarons. That feeling stayed with me until I returned to the bakeshop the next morning.

  It started as a typical day with the scent of rising yeast bread and butter croissants baking in the ovens. Bethany set up a photo shoot of our French macarons. Andy kept pace at the espresso bar and continued to perfect his latte bust of Shakespeare. Sterling watched over a pot of bubbling French onion soup, and Stephan
ie shuffled around like a zombie.

  Aside from my concern about Stephanie’s ability to function on no sleep, the morning passed with relative calm. That changed when I checked my e-mail. A message from Lance waited in my inbox, spelling out his instructions, which included the fact that every attendee and vendor would be required to dress in period costumes. Great.

  I printed out his detailed spreadsheet and called everyone around the island.

  “What’s the deal, Jules?” Sterling turned his attention away from the onions he was caramelizing on the stove.

  “I have an, er, update from Lance,” I said.

  “Oh no.” Stephanie let out a groan. “I don’t like the sound of this.”

  “What’s the bad news, boss?” Andy asked, chomping on the day’s special—a roast beef and cheddar cheese sandwich with a thin layer of homemade horseradish sauce and served on a hearty baguette. Mom has always believed that a fed staff is a happy staff. Our team never went hungry. They were the first to sample new recipes and taste whatever was hot out of the oven. We had an open-kitchen policy where they were welcome to help themselves to anything from the pastry case or on the lunch menu. No one had ever abused the privilege. If anything, it boosted sales. We often sold out of daily specials because Sterling and Andy would rave to customers about how the daily soup was the best thing that they’d ever tasted.

  “It’s not exactly bad news.” I tried to choose my words carefully.

  “But it’s not good news,” Sterling interjected. He folded his arms across his chest.

  “That depends on your perspective.”

  “Out with it.” Andy waved his baguette at me.

  “Lance is requesting that we dress up for the party.”

  Sterling raised one brow. “Dress up how? Like a suit?”

  “Not exactly. He wants all of the service staff in full costume.”

  “No way. I’m out. You are not going to get me in a costume,” Stephanie said from the opposite side of the island. Her dark, steely glare made it clear that she was serious. I had no intention of forcing any of my staff to do something they didn’t want to, but given the look of panic and dread on Stephanie’s face, I worried she was going to quit on the spot.