Live and Let Pie Read online

  “Yeah. That’s the one,” Mom said, and we walked up the street to the lot with the cabin in desperate need of repair behind Nightingales.

  “I know this lot,” Mom commented.

  A FOR SALE sign was posted near the property line and sidewalk. It hadn’t been there the other day.

  Two older gentlemen and a young woman in her early thirties were talking in front of the dilapidated shack. One of the men wore painter’s overalls that were splattered with brick-red paint. The woman had massive piles of thick black curls that bounced as she spoke. She held a clipboard in one hand and appeared to be pointing something out to the men. It didn’t look like she was having much success.

  The other man, who was dressed like one of the travelers who spend their days busking on the plaza, noticed us. He shuffled over to us.

  “Hey, you lookin’ at the sign?”

  Mom extended her hand. “Yes, I’m Helen and this is my daughter, Juliet. My real estate agent mentioned that the lot was just listed for sale. We own Torte, the bakeshop just down the street, and thought we would come take a quick look. We don’t want to disturb you though.”

  The man made a grunting sound. “Name’s Edgar. I own the lot.”

  He was a man of few words. There was an awkward pause while Mom and I waited for him to say more.

  “Well, I can see that you’re occupied,” Mom said as she pointed to the young woman and man in painting gear who were now headed our way. “I’ll have my agent give you a call and schedule a time to come take a better look.”

  Edgar stared at her. “Why? You’re here now, aren’t you? Take a look. There’s not much to see.”

  Mom hesitated.

  The woman with the bouncy curls sounded breathless when she reached us. “What’s going on?” She directed her question at Edgar but was looking at us.

  Edgar didn’t reply.

  “We were just taking a quick look at the lot,” Mom replied. I could hear the confusion in her voice. “Are you the listing agent?”

  “For the lot?” The woman thrust her thumb toward the grassy open space. “No. The lot isn’t for sale. Did you tell them that, Edgar?”

  Again Edgar said nothing.

  “I’m Gretchen. I’m the new director of the homeless council.” She pushed thick brown glasses up the bridge of her nose.

  “Of course.” Mom smiled. “I thought you looked familiar. I read the feature story that the Ashland Daily Tidings did on you. Welcome. I’m Helen, I own Torte.”

  “Torte!” Gretchen’s large brown eyes lit up. “Torte! You guys have been so great to us. I haven’t been in Ashland long. I took the job a few weeks ago and have been meaning to swing by the bakeshop and thank you for your support and ongoing donations. My predecessor absolutely raves about you. She said you’ve been donating your overstock for decades. That’s absolutely wonderful. I can tell you without hesitation that Ashland’s unhoused population is grateful to get to share in your artisan pastries and baked goods. You wouldn’t believe some of the donations we receive.” She paused and fluffed her curls. “Don’t get me wrong, we will gladly accept any donations that come through our doors, but when I’m speaking with school and church groups about the transient population I like to put them in the person’s shoes. We get a lot—I mean a lot—of things like canned creamed spinach in the food bank. And, again, the families we serve are happy to get whatever food they can, but when I’m educating the general public, I ask people to think about what it might be like to only eat one meal a day, or less. Then to think about what they might want to receive if they were in the same position. Getting one of your beautifully designed cupcakes or a loaf of specialty bread can be a real mood booster for this population. It can really change someone’s outlook to receive a luxury food item like what you donate.”

  Mom’s cheeks reddened. “That’s nice to hear. We’re always happy to help support the community in whatever way we can.”

  Gretchen clasped her hands in prayer. “The thanks is all mine. Sorry about the speech. I just get so passionate about this topic.” She looked to Edgar who curled his lip and shrugged.

  “Passion is a good thing,” Mom replied.

  “You must be Juliet,” Gretchen said, turning her attention to me. “I’ve heard so much about you. Everyone likes to boast that Ashland has one of the best pastry chefs in the country.”

  “I don’t know about that.” Now it was my turn to blush.

  Gretchen clapped her hands together. “What a lucky afternoon. We’re blazing a new deal and now I get to meet the famed owners of Torte.”

  She sounded like she was about to say more, but the man in the overalls finally made his way to us. His gait was unsteady, and I noticed a subtle limp on his left side. “What’s all the commotion?”

  “This is Helen and Juliet; they own Torte,” Gretchen introduced us. “This is Henry. He lives in the house at the crest of the hill, above Edgar.” She turned and pointed to the house directly above the lot. It was a rust-brown color with orange trim. The roof was spotted with moss. A large cedar deck wrapped around the back of the house. It looked down into Edgar’s house and the attached overgrown lot. The house needed some TLC, and from the sight of painter’s tape around the window trim and the large ladder propped against the siding it looked as if it was about to get a new coat of paint.

  “I know Torte. Fancy coffee. Isn’t that right, Edgar?” Henry asked. His overalls were splattered with paint and a tool belt hung around his waist.

  Edgar grunted something.

  “I thought maybe you were the real estate lady. I’m going to get back to my painting, since you ladies are bakers and can’t give us any idea about property lines.” Henry turned and began walking back over the uneven grass. I wondered if he needed a hand. “See you for a gin later, Edgar?”

  “Yep.” Edgar nodded.

  “These two are the cutest,” Gretchen said. “They’ve been neighbors—for what—Edgar? Thirty years?”

  “Longer.” He turned and snarled at Henry. “Can’t get rid of the old geezer.”

  “You two!” Gretchen put her hand over her heart and looked at me. “The cutest, right? Anyway, they have a nightly drink. Gin and tonic, right, Edgar?”

  “Gin.”

  Gretchen laughed. Edgar didn’t crack a smile.

  “You must be a walking encyclopedia of Ashland history,” Mom said to Edgar with a smile.

  “I’ve been around long enough to see that the more things change, the more nothing changes,” Edgar said as he waved off a dragonfly buzzing around his head.

  “I can imagine,” Mom continued. “I’ve been in Ashland over thirty years and I’m always surprised by how much we’ve grown, and yet maintained a sense of a small community.”

  Edgar glanced behind him toward Henry’s half-painted house. “Try sixty years.”

  I could tell that he was warming up to Mom. His shoulders relaxed as he continued. “My family was one of the first to settle at Klamath Junction. You’ve probably never heard of it.”

  “We’ve just come from the lake,” Mom said, shooting me a look of curiosity. “What uncanny timing. Klamath Junction is on the top of my mind because the police are searching the old town as we speak.” She went on to explain how the girls had discovered the skull and how the site of the now submerged town was being searched by dive teams.

  Edgar’s face blanched. He lost his footing as he swatted at the dragonfly again.

  Gretchen caught him by the elbow. “Are you okay?”

  “Heat’s getting to me.” He nodded to us and shuffled off to his house.

  Gretchen waited until he was out of earshot. “Don’t let his crusty exterior fool you. That man has a heart of gold. And those two have been looking after each other for longer than I’ve been alive.”

  “Henry mentioned something about property lines. Has the lot already sold?”

  Gretchen’s jaw tightened ever so slightly. “Oh, that’s nothing. They have to map out where the property l
ine ends for the sale. That’s all.”

  “So the lot is already sold?” Mom repeated.

  “Yeah. Yeah.” Gretchen sounded unsure. She glanced at her clipboard. “I should really get back to work. It was great meeting you both. I’ll have to stop into Torte soon and try one of your wonderful pastries.”

  “Please do,” Mom said. “We’d love to have you.”

  “Only you might want to hold off for a couple days.” I realized I was still wearing the floppy hat from the hike. I took it off. “We’re almost done with a major remodel. I can’t wait to dust and have the bakeshop back in order.”

  Gretchen chuckled. “I know the feeling.” She tapped her clipboard. “We’re in the middle of a huge new project and I’m starting to wonder if I’ve taken on too much.”

  “Sounds like you two have a lot in common.” Mom winked.

  “I’ll be by soon,” Gretchen called as she returned to Edgar’s house.

  Mom and I turned to head down the hill. “Was that odd, or was it just me?”

  “That was odd,” I concurred.

  “I think I can cross the lot off our list. I get the sense that there might be drama involved in the sale.”

  “Me too.”

  I was glad that Mom had come to that conclusion on her own. There was definitely something brewing between Henry, Edgar, Pam, and Gretchen. We had enough drama for the moment with new staff, a remodel, and figuring out what was next for Uva. I was happy to leave whatever property dispute might be in the works alone and focus on the wonderful things that lay ahead for Torte.

  Chapter Eight

  For the next few days I did just that—focused on the wonderful changes at Torte. The construction crew put the finishing touches on the upstairs, poured the new accessibility ramp, and gave the bakeshop a final deep cleaning. With eager anticipation Mom and I gathered the team and the Professor for the big reveal the night before our grand reopening. I had sent everyone home while the construction crew packed up their power tools. While the crew used a Shop-Vac to clean the stairs I hung posters of coffee charts, lined the shelves above the coffee bar with vintage cookbooks and succulent plants, and put the dining room back together. I asked the construction workers to leave the plastic in place, so I could surprise my staff, and I recruited Andy to help make a special drink for the occasion.

  My eyes welled with happy tears as Mom, the Professor, Andy, Steph, Rosa, Marty, Sterling, Bethany, and Sequoia gathered in the dining room.

  “I just want to say thank you for your support through this process. I know that it’s been challenging, but you guys are the best team in Ashland.”

  “In the Rogue Valley!” Andy chimed in.

  “Yes, in the Rogue Valley.” I looked to Mom. “Do you want to add anything?”

  The Professor had his arm wrapped around her shoulder. She smiled at him and then said, “No, I want to see it. Let’s tear down that plastic.”

  “Drum roll, boss!” Andy shouted as I reached for one corner of the thick plastic that shrouded our new and improved coffee bar, pastry counter, and ice cream case.

  Sterling stood at the opposite side of the plastic ready to tear down his end.

  Bethany pounded the top of her thighs.

  “Count it down, Mrs. The Professor,” Andy said to Mom, holding three fingers in the air.

  Mom and the Professor grinned at each other. “Okay, here goes. Three … two … one!”

  Sterling and I ripped down the plastic in unison. Everyone cheered. The renovation had turned out better than I could have expected. We had nearly tripled our working counter space. Three brand-new pastry cases stretched from the top of the stairwell. There was a small cooler that would eventually house hand-churned concretes (like a frozen custard) and a passageway for staff to get in and out of the workspace. The far end of the long counter housed the espresso machine and coffee bar. We had repurposed the original kitchen butcher-block island (which had been the first piece of furniture that my parents bought when they opened Torte). It sat opposite the coffee counter and would serve as a space for lids, straws, napkins, cream, sugar, spices, house-made simple syrups, and anything else our customers might want to dress up their coffee.

  The dining room had remained basically intact. There were still window booths and a variety of tables in the front, but we had also been able to add a number of two-person tables along the wall across from the coffee counter and pastry cases. I couldn’t believe how large the space looked. Our signature chalkboard awaited a new quote and fun designs from Torte’s youngest customers.

  “This calls for a toast,” Mom exclaimed, looking up to the wine rack for a bottle of something celebratory to open.

  We stock a variety of wines and a small rotation of local craft beers for our evening crowd and for our Sunday Suppers, which had been on hold during renovations. I was eager to start planning our next one.

  Andy held both of his arms up in the air. “Hold it right there, Mrs. The Professor. Jules and I have got you covered.”

  He squeezed behind the coffee bar and returned with a tray of clear twelve-ounce glasses. Each was filled with a scoop of our vanilla bean ice cream that had been drowned in shots of hot espresso and dusted with dark chocolate shavings and chopped hazelnuts.

  “Affogatos, everyone.” He beamed as he passed around the delectable Italian coffee dessert. “In Italian affogato means drowned. Get ready to be drowned in deliciousness.”

  The memory of Hannah and Ellen diving in the lake flashed in my mind. No one noticed that I shuddered internally at the mention of drowning as I took a sip.

  “Did you flood these with espresso shots or strong-brewed coffee?” Sequoia asked, studying the creamy, melting ice cream. She sounded like she was genuinely interested in learning his technique, but Andy interpreted her question differently.

  “Espresso,” he snapped. “It’s an Italian specialty, so obviously espresso is the only choice.”

  “Noted.” Sequoia rolled her eyes.

  I wondered if I should mention that I’d had affogatos made both ways while in Italy.

  Mom swept in and patted Andy’s muscular shoulder. “You have outdone yourself once again. These are divine.”

  He was appeased by her compliment. However, I noticed that he gave Sequoia a lingering glare. I couldn’t let the tension between them simmer. Things hadn’t improved between them. They hadn’t gotten worse either. But Andy continued to be short and icy to Sequoia. I didn’t want our food to suffer. Carlos believed that the feeling we infuse into food is as important as the food itself.

  I could hear his voice in my head. “The food, it knows, Julieta. We must cook with love. It comes through in the flavor. The customers, they will know if the chef is angry when he is in the kitchen.”

  The question was how and when to intervene with Andy and Sequoia. It had only been a short time. In a dream world, they would find a working rhythm without any intervention from me. It was looking less likely that that would happen. I was going to have to keep a close eye on them, and if things didn’t improve by the end of the week, it would be time to come up with Plan B.

  Everyone drank the creamy affogatos and familiarized themselves with the changes to the space. I had a chance to speak with the Professor alone while Mom went over her vision for the pastry displays.

  “Any updates on the skull recovered from Emigrant Lake?” I asked.

  The Professor sipped his coffee. A dot of vanilla ice cream landed on his reddish beard. He reached into his breast pocket and dabbed it with a linen handkerchief. “Indeed. The dive team recovered the rest of the remains as well as what could be a possible murder weapon. We’re waiting for final lab results, but we’re relatively confident that we’re going to be able to identify the body.”

  “Really?”

  “As a matter of fact, I had recently been reviewing old unsolved cases, preparing for my eventual retirement.”

  “Are you getting closer?”

  He was noncommittal. “Time w
ill tell. In any event, I am convinced that the remains are those of George Mill.”

  “The George Mill? The one who supposedly stayed on his family homestead when Klamath Junction was flooded?”

  “The one and the same. The Mill family (George’s grandparents) was the original family who founded Klamath Junction. They were originally from Tennessee. They came to Oregon at the turn of the last century and staked their claim at what we now know as Emigrant Lake. The lake was originally created in 1926. Have you ever seen the old photos on display at the Southern Oregon Historical Society?”

  “Maybe a long time ago, on a school field trip.”

  “It’s worth a trip to Medford. Klamath Junction in its heyday was a small plot with two service stations, a garage, cemetery, dance hall, and family homes.”

  “And then they expanded the lake at some point, right? That’s when the town disappeared underwater?”

  “Correct.” The Professor paused and took another sip of his affogato. “The lake was expanded in 1960. They moved the cemetery to higher ground, but the town is still standing—under hundreds of thousands of gallons of water of course.”

  I shuddered. Thinking about Hannah and Ellen finding George’s body.

  “What’s the story with George Mill?” I asked. “I assume that discovering his remains clears up the rumor that he stayed on the homestead while the town was flooded.”

  “I’m afraid so. He went missing around the time the lake was expanded. Rumors at the time claimed that he refused to leave the family homestead. It was assumed that he drowned. His skeletal remains paint a different picture, as does what I’ve been able to uncover about his past thus far.”

  “How so?” My interest was piqued.

  “George was cantankerous. There’s a documented history of altercations with neighbors and poor, unsuspecting hikers who ventured onto his property.”

  “Like what?” I was so wrapped up in our conversation that I barely noticed as Mom and the team headed for the basement. I probably should have joined them but wanted to hear the rest of the story.

  “For starters, he shot at anyone who came within a hundred feet of his property.”