Another One Bites the Crust Page 8

  “And yet you opted to come here,” the Professor continued. “What made you decide to come to Juliet’s apartment rather than calling for help?”

  Thomas’s cell phone buzzed. “I’ll take this outside,” he said to the Professor. I wondered if the first responders were calling him with an update.

  The Professor’s voice was calm yet commanding as he dove into a new round of questions. “Tell me why you were at Lithia Park at such a late hour.”

  Lance’s voice was shaky. “I don’t know why I came to Juilet’s. I suppose instinct.” He answered more questions and relayed the evening’s events once again. I thought it was a good sign that his story hadn’t varied.

  “Don’t you have a permanent parking space up next to the bricks?” the Professor asked when Lance finished.

  “Yes.”

  “And why didn’t you park there tonight? You said that you parked your car near Lithia Creek instead.”

  I wondered what the significance of Lance parking in a different area was and what it had to do with Antony’s murder.

  “The party.” Lance’s reply was shrill. “We needed the space. Delivery trucks were arriving all afternoon. I simply parked down below to make room.”

  “Hmm.”

  The scent of the buttery shortbread began to permeate the kitchen. I sipped my tea and breathed it in. Thomas came back inside and went over and whispered something in the Professor’s ear.

  “I see.” The Professor nodded. “I believe that’s everything we need for the moment. Thomas, please go ahead and take Lance down to the car for DNA samples. We’d like you to come with us and identify the location of the body.”

  “Okay.” Lance sighed.

  I ducked my head out again. “Can I send anyone with a mug of tea?”

  “Something smells heavenly as always,” the Professor said, drawing in a breath and walking over to me. “Alas, we cannot dally, but someone will be back later to take your statement. I do apologize for the inconvenience. Normally I would never consider interviewing a suspect in your apartment; however, I think you’ll agree that these are unusual circumstances. I intend to be as discreet as I possibly can, while still following the letter of the law. When and if word spreads that Lance is involved in…” He trailed off in search of the right word. “Whatever this is, I’m sure you can imagine the stir this will cause.”

  I nodded.

  With that the three of them left my apartment. I couldn’t believe it, and I couldn’t sit still. Lance wasn’t a killer, but why in the world would he have taken the dagger and why were his hands covered in blood?

  Chapter Nine

  My shortbread finished baking not long after they left. Shortbread is only as good as the butter you use. My preference is Irish butter. There’s nothing that compares to the smooth, soft milk fat from grass-fed Irish cows. I pulled them from the oven and was pleased with the result. The top and sides were golden brown and slightly crisp. After it cooled, I would cut it in squares. At Torte, we use shortbread for everything from crusts for cream-filled pies to specialty cookies, like at Valentine’s Day when we cut shortbread into hearts and dip them into melted dark chocolate.

  I considered calling Mom, but it was so late that I didn’t want to wake her and cause her any undue worry. Like me, the minute she found out that Lance was in trouble, I knew she would never be able to go back to sleep. The empty walls in my apartment felt claustrophobic as I paced from the living room to the kitchen and back again. Short of my collection of cookbooks, my space was barren. I had hung one print that I purchased at the Lithia Artists Market. It was a pencil drawing of an Italian market on a busy summer day. The vibrant stalls of fresh fruit and hanging salami appealed to the foodie in me and reminded me of my travels with Carlos. With my travels and love life on hiatus it was time to make this place my own, I thought, peering out the window for any sign of the Professor or Thomas.

  It felt like hours before Thomas returned, but in reality, it was only about forty minutes later that he knocked softly on the front door.

  “Hey, Jules. I’ve got some news and need to ask you a couple of questions.”

  “No problem.” I let him in. “Do you want some shortbread and tea now?”

  “That would be amazing.”

  Was it just my imagination or did he sound dejected? I piled shortbread squares on a plate and poured Thomas a mug of tea before joining him on the couch.

  “So how bad is it?” I asked, handing him the tea and setting the plate on the coffee table.

  “Honestly, I’m not sure.” He wrapped his hands around the mug. “How do you do this?”

  “Do what?”

  “Manage to bake something that smells like it’s going to be the best thing I’ve ever tasted in the middle of a crisis?”

  “It’s what I do.” I chuckled nervously. “If I didn’t do something I was going to go crazy, so I figured I might as well bake.”

  “Lucky me.” Thomas placed the tea on the table and picked up a cookie. He took a bite and savored it for a minute. “Yep. This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

  “It’s butter, sugar, and flour. It can’t be the best thing you’ve ever tasted.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” He took a huge bite. “Yep. It’s the best.”

  “Thanks, but you’re the worst judge. You would literally eat anything I put in front of you.”

  He gave me a sheepish grin. “True, but these are amazing.” He finished the cookie. “Okay, on to the bad stuff.”

  I braced myself. Had they found proof that Lance was the killer?

  “Jules, you look like you’re going to throw up.”

  “I feel like I might throw up.” My stomach gurgled in response.

  Thomas placed his hand on my knee. “I know. I get it.”

  “It’s weird, because as you know, Lance drives me crazy, but he’s become a good friend, and I’m worried about him.”

  “Me, too.” Thomas squeezed my knee. It felt calming and reassuring.

  “Don’t leave me in suspense. What did you find?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What?” My hair had spilled from my headband. I brushed a strand from my eyes.

  Thomas removed his hand and sat up. “Nothing. Not a body. Nothing. There’s nothing there.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  His bright eyes narrowed. “No. I wish I was. Lance took us right to the spot where he says he found Antony’s body, but there’s nothing there.”

  “What?” I couldn’t think of anything articulate to ask. “What does that mean?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.” Thomas helped himself to another slice of shortbread. “Maybe he made the whole thing up. Lance is prone to wanting attention. Stranger things have happened.”

  I thought about how out of sorts Lance had been lately. Could he have staged a fake murder? Maybe. But why? Even for Lance that seemed out of character and insanely dramatic.

  “The team is sweeping the area now,” Thomas said through a mouthful of shortbread. “It’s dark, so they’re bringing in floodlights. Maybe they’ll find something we couldn’t see with our flashlights. We’ll do a complete search of the park first thing in the morning. If there was a body there will be some kind of a trail—drag marks, bloodstains, that sort of thing.”

  An involuntary shudder ran up my spine.

  “There’s also the possibility that someone did stab Antony, but that he wasn’t dead. Lithia Park is ninety-three acres of canyonland. There’s plenty of space to disappear. Antony could have lost consciousness and be hidden underneath a tree or up in the forest if he tried to get help and got turned around.”

  I rubbed my temples and pulled off the headband. “None of this makes sense.”

  “None of it looks good for Lance.” Thomas played with the zipper on his warm-up jacket.

  “Right. I get it.”

  Thomas leaned his elbow on the armrest. “Jules, how would you describe Lance lately?”

&nbs
p; “What do you mean?” I had a feeling I knew exactly what he meant, but I didn’t want to betray my friend.

  “Has he been acting like himself?” Thomas kept his face passive, but his sky-blue eyes pierced through me. I recognized the look.

  “Not exactly.” I twisted the beaded headband.

  “Care to elaborate?” Thomas crossed one foot over the other and relaxed into the couch.

  I confessed my fears and explained that both Mom and I had been worried about him for a while now. Thomas listened without taking any notes. “Anything else you think I should know?” he asked once I finished.

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  He sat up and brushed cookie crumbs from his jeans. “Yeah, it is. Try not to worry.”

  “Where is Lance now?” I gathered the few remaining slices of shortbread. It would go to waste in my apartment, so I figured I would wrap them up and send them home with Thomas.

  “He was still at the scene when I left. The Professor will look after him.” Thomas stood. “Listen, Jules, this might get kind of complicated.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, for the moment Antony is a suspected missing person, but if we find a body the Professor has already said that he’s going to recuse himself from the investigation. In fact, he already put in a call to Medford for support.”

  “Why?” I repeated.

  “Lance.” Thomas curled his lip down. “The Professor and Lance have known each other for years.”

  “And he thinks Lance is a suspect,” I interrupted.

  “Jules, come on. He is.” Thomas shrugged. “It’s the right move.”

  “Yeah.” I stood and held out the plate of shortbread. “You want to take these home?”

  Thomas grinned. “You know I won’t turn down that offer.”

  He followed me into the kitchen with our tea mugs. Without asking he rinsed out the cups and placed them in the dishwasher. “How goes the expansion?”

  “It’s coming along.” I found a roll of waxed paper and layered it between the shortbread. Moisture is a baker’s enemy. The waxed paper would serve as a barrier to keep the shortbread from getting chewy. Shortbread is meant to be crisp. For soft cookies like snickerdoodles or chocolate chip, I always place a slice of white bread in my cookie jar to help keep them chewy. The cookies absorb the moisture from the bread and white bread won’t transfer any flavor to the cookies. For a crisp cookie like a shortbread or oatmeal Scotties, I store them in airtight containers.

  Thomas waited for me to place the stack of shortbread into a plastic bag and seal it. “I’ll have to come take a look. Richard Lord isn’t giving you any trouble, is he?”

  I hesitated. It would have been easy to lie, but fortunately Richard Lord had been strangely silent lately. “Nope. In fact, I haven’t seen him once since I’ve been home.”

  “He’s probably planning his next big move.” Thomas rolled his eyes and then took the bag of shortbread. “Thanks. You know you didn’t need to go to the trouble of packaging these up. They’ll be gone before I get back to Lithia Park.”

  “Pace yourself, friend.” I patted his back as we walked to the door.

  “Are you saying I can’t polish off an entire pan of your shortbread and not hate myself in the morning?” He pinched his waist. “I’ll have you know that I’m in fighting shape. I decided I needed a new challenge, so I signed up for a half marathon. I’ve been running every day.”

  “I wondered if you were running again.”

  His eyes brightened. “You did?”

  My cheeks warmed. “Just take your shortbread and go,” I ordered with a laugh.

  He flexed. “All right, but you’re saying good-bye to these muscles.”

  “Get out.”

  With a wink, he left.

  I had to admit that I enjoyed our easy banter. Being around Thomas was comfortable and familiar. But after I shut and locked the door, my thoughts returned to Lance. What was going on with my friend? Could he be having a nervous breakdown? Was tonight an elaborate ruse to get attention, or was Antony really dead?

  Chapter Ten

  I didn’t sleep much, so when my alarm sounded in the darkness I quickly silenced it and yanked off the covers. Who knew what the day would bring. I wondered if the police had found anything—or anyone—at Lithia Park overnight and how Lance was doing. Had it only been a few hours since Thomas had come by? I tugged on a pair of jeans, a V-neck white T-shirt, and a fleece sweatshirt. Ashland mornings and evenings had been cool in the shifting weather. By midday I would be pulling off the sweatshirt and cracking open Torte’s kitchen windows. I washed my face with cold water and tied my hair into a high ponytail.

  Before I did anything else, I needed coffee—strong coffee. My morning routine rarely varied. I enjoyed a leisurely cup or two of dark roast before heading to Torte. The process of slowly brewing nutty aromatic beans was almost like meditation for me. I could complete each step with my eyes closed, from pouring ice-cold filtered water into the pot to grinding the beans. I appreciated that coffee couldn’t be rushed. My mornings started with a cadence and pace that involved breathing in the scent of bright and cheery beans and allowing my body a moment of pause and quiet contemplation before facing the day.

  This morning was no exception and I found myself lingering over my second cup for longer than usual. I couldn’t stop thinking about Lance. There was no good answer. Either outcome—whether he was having a breakdown or had found a body—came with potentially terrible consequences. If Lance had fabricated Antony’s death, what did that mean for the state of his mental health? Was he delusional? Did he need immediate help? Or had Antony met an untimely death? If so, where was his body, and who had killed him?

  Questions assaulted my head as I polished off my coffee and placed my mug in the sink. I wasn’t going to solve Lance’s problems by creating my own, so I put on my tennis shoes. Torte was calling like a welcome reprieve from my spinning mind. “Time to bake,” I said aloud, stepping outside. A brisk breeze greeted me as I took the stairs two at a time. Elevation, the outdoor store beneath my apartment, had geared up for spring. Two bright red and yellow river kayaks hung in its front windows along with colorful collections of water sandals, swimsuits, beach towels, and a pyramid of sunscreen. It didn’t feel like swimsuit weather quite yet. I rubbed my arms and hurried down the sidewalk. By the look of the other storefronts in the plaza it appeared that everyone in Ashland had a touch of spring fever. Tulips budded in planter boxes, special spring menus had been posted on restaurant doors, and flyers for hiking excursions and drumming circles at Lithia Park were plastered near the information kiosk in the center of the town square.

  When I arrived at the bakeshop the lights were already on in the kitchen. Mom had beat me in. I unlocked the front door.

  “What are you doing here so early?” I called, locking the door behind me. If we left it unlocked customers would come in long before we were ready for them. “What are you doing here at all?”

  Mom turned off the mixer and rubbed her left ear. “What’s that, honey?”

  Her hearing had been diminishing over the past few years thanks in part to genetics and a lifetime spent in the kitchen surrounded by whirling mixers and happy, noisy customers.

  “I said you’re here early,” I repeated, and grabbed an apron from the hooks near the office.

  Then I glanced at the island, which was filled with trays of cooling cookies, muffins, and pastries. “How long have you been here?” I asked. “I thought you were taking mornings off.”

  Mom slid loaves of bread into the oven, and then turned to me. “I couldn’t sleep. I heard what happened.” She brushed flour onto her apron and moved toward me. “Have you seen him?”

  “Who? Lance?”

  Her eyes held a look of deep concern.

  “I saw him last night. He came to my place. He didn’t even call the Professor or police.”

  Mom wrapped her arm around my waist. “How are you doing?” She smelled of honey and vani
lla.

  I leaned into her. “I don’t know.”

  She held me for a minute, not needing to say a word. Once I found my bearings, I squeezed her arm. She took it as a signal that I could stand on my own and released me. “Doug told me everything. He mentioned the possibility that Lance created Antony’s death as a hoax.” Her voice held the same questioning disbelief that I felt.

  “Yeah, that’s what Thomas said last night. I can’t believe it, though. What would Lance possibly gain?”

  Mom’s brow wrinkled. “My thoughts exactly.”

  “Does the Professor really think that Lance made it up?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. But what I do know is that Doug and Lance have been friends for years. Doug isn’t going to jump to any conclusions.”

  “Is he going to stay on the case?”

  She twisted her wedding ring from my dad that she wore on a chain around her neck. “I’m not sure. He’s meeting with a detective from Medford this morning.”

  “I hope he can stay involved. Lance needs him.”

  Mom closed her eyes momentarily. I wondered if she was saying a silent prayer. “I know. There’s not much we can do for the moment. We’ll have to see what the day brings.”

  The kitchen smelled of baking bread and cinnamon. My stomach rumbled.

  Mom chuckled. “Sounds like someone skipped breakfast.” She walked to the island and handed me a cinnamon pecan muffin. “Eat.”

  Ever since I had returned home she had been trying to fatten me up. The stress of leaving the ship and Carlos had made me drop a few pounds, but I kept reminding her that I had gained that weight back, plus some. “Mom, I’m fine.” I shifted my apron to show her how my jeans fit snuggly against my waist.

  “Nonsense. You’ve been rail thin since you were a kid. Your father and I used to joke that it was a good thing we owned a bakeshop. He called you a bottomless pit.”

  I laughed at the memory. My dad, like me, had been tall and naturally lean. As a kid, I hated being the tallest girl in class and wished I had inherited my mom’s petite frame. However, in time I came to appreciate my height. It turned out to be an asset in culinary school. None of the guys messed with me, I think because they were afraid of me.