Till Death Do Us Tart Page 8

  “Lance, are you sure?” My skin felt clammy.

  “Positive, but I made a terrible mistake.”

  Construction equipment beeped in the background. “What kind of a mistake?”

  “I left the room. I thought I might be sick. Seeing my father’s lifeless body was…” He didn’t finish.

  “I know,” I said with sympathy.

  He coughed twice. “In any event, I stepped out of the room for a moment and when I returned everything was plugged back in. How will we ever prove that Leo killed my father?”

  “Can we?” I hated to sound unhelpful. “We’ll have to talk to the Professor. I have no idea what to do.”

  “What about fingerprints on the cord or plug-in? There has to be some evidence, somewhere.” Lance’s voice hit a shrill pitch.

  “Look, why don’t you drive home, or come here. We’ll find the Professor and talk to him together.” I hoped that my tone sounded calming.

  “Okay. Okay. I’ll call him. Sorry to dump this on you. I’ve been a terrible friend lately. I’ll make it up to you somehow.”

  “Lance, don’t be ridiculous. That’s what friends do. Really, I’m here for anything you need. Anytime. You can call me at two o’clock in the morning. I’ll be here.”

  He let out a sorrowful sigh. “That’s why I love you, darling. I’ll check in later.”

  We hung up. I stared at the still kitchen. Suddenly, my stresses and worries seemed minor. Lance had lost his father. Unfortunately, I knew all too well that there was no escaping grief. The pain of losing my father had left me forever altered. After he died, I remember seeing a therapist who walked me through the stages of grief. While the exercise had been helpful in understanding that my erratic emotions were normal, the idea of grief being linear and something that could be mastered was misleading. Grief was part of me. It had made me stronger, but I carried my father’s loss and his memory with me. I wished that I could fix things for Lance, but I knew that the only thing I could do would be to stand with him in the days and weeks and months ahead. To offer a listening ear or temporary distraction while he learned to find a way to make space for his grief.

  I headed for the kitchen. I needed to clear my head and the best way to do that was to bake. After tying on an apron, I washed my hands and began proofing bread yeast. Had Lance called the Professor? I should have asked him to let me know. Before I got my hands sticky with bread dough I shot him a text. What was standard procedure for a death like this? Would an autopsy or any sort of formal investigation be performed since Lance’s father had been sick? I thought about my brief conversation with Leo, Sarah, and Jarvis. They seemed like an unlikely trio. My first impression had been that Sarah appeared to be in charge. Leo didn’t strike me as mastermind or genius. Could he have planned to kill his father? What kind of person would unplug their parent from life support?

  I shuddered at the thought. I couldn’t imagine anyone killing their parent, but after meeting Leo yesterday I had to admit that it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. Then again, Lance had a tendency toward hysterics. There was an equal chance that his father had died from natural causes and that no one had tampered with his life support.

  One important question that I hadn’t asked was whether there was anyone else in the room. Hopefully, Lance would come by soon and we could sit down and talk more.

  With the yeast rising I combined flour, a touch of sugar, and salt in the mixer. Once the yeast had bubbled up, I added that to the dry ingredients and let the kneading attachment in our industrial mixer do the heavy lifting. When the dough was stretchy I would finish it by hand and pat it into greased loaf pans.

  I wanted to get through our morning orders quickly so I could focus most of the day on the final wedding prep. With extra hands around, we could divide our efforts between Torte’s kitchen and Uva’s. Chef Garrison and his team would be finishing the remainder of the prep work on-site. Once we had beautiful rows of pastries stacked in the front case and a pot of soup simmering on the stove, we could send a crew to Uva with the premade desserts to assist Chef Garrison. Carlos could oversee those efforts and I could pop back and forth throughout the day.

  Since none of my staff were likely to get a breather in the next couple of days I wanted to make a hearty, simple lunch just for them—a Greek chicken sheet-pan lunch. Sheet-pan meals were like modern-day casseroles. The ingredients could be combined, placed on a sheet pan, and baked together. I went to the walk-in and removed organic chicken breasts. Then I gathered green beans, lemons, garlic, onions, Kalamata olives, and fire-roasted tomatoes. I diced onions and garlic. The strong scent made my eyes begin to water. Next, I sliced the chicken into thin two-inch strips, rinsed the green beans, and tossed everything together with olive oil. I seasoned it with salt, pepper, and fresh oregano and basil. I squeezed in the juice of half a lemon, and sliced the rest of them into wedges. After greasing a sheet pan I spread the ingredients on to the tray and returned to the walk-in where it could marinate for hours. At lunchtime, we could pop it into the oven, bake for twenty to thirty minutes, and have a delicious savory meal.

  With my Greek chicken marinating, I switched gears and returned my focus to finishing the morning bread. I wanted to get it done and delivered as quickly as possible because I still needed time to work on the wedding cake. Hiding it from Mom had been a team effort. We had pieces of the cake stashed all around the bakery. On multiple occasions we had had to scurry to hide sugar flowers or lie about a last-minute custom order that wasn’t listed on the whiteboard.

  The cake was going to be five layers, designed like a fairy garden. The bottom tier would resemble the forest floor, the next would feature delicate, blooming spring flowers, each painted by hand, the third layer would have two trees made of modeling chocolate. The tree branches would stretch toward one another, a symbol of Mom and the Professor’s love. They would be decorated with sugar flowers and butterflies. The final two tiers would be completely covered in handmade sugar flowers in pink, purple, peach, and green. I’d been working on the sugar art whenever I had a spare minute. Thus far, I had amassed a few dozen sugar flowers, but we were going to need many more. I was going to have to recruit Steph or Bethany to help later.

  Each layer of the cake would consist of a different flavor—strawberry shortcake vanilla cake with cream cheese frosting and fresh strawberries; lemon butter with lemon curd and French buttercream; a traditional milk chocolate with chocolate ganache; almond with marzipan and raspberries; and a spice cake with cardamom and orange buttercream. There should be something to please every palate. In addition to the tiered wedding cake, we had baked extra sheet cakes to cut and slice. The dessert table would include tarts, pies, petit fours, chocolates, and custards. I didn’t think there was any chance we would be short on sweets. Our mantra at Torte was that you could never have too much of a good thing. Better to be overprepared and send the bride and groom home with boxes of goodies than to run out of dessert.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about Lance as I slid puffy loaves of bread into the oven. To have spent so many years disconnected from his father and then to have him die right after reuniting must be heartbreaking. It made me think about Mom. Returning home to work by her side was one of the best decisions I had ever made.

  I dusted powdered sugar on a loaf of sweet bread. The front doorbell jingled. Stephanie arrived and greeted me with some kind of a grunt.

  “Morning,” I offered.

  She washed her hands, tied on an apron, and stared at the coffee bar. “Andy’s not here yet?”

  “Nope. You’re stuck with me.”

  “Can I make coffee?”

  “Knock yourself out.” I watched her trudge to the espresso counter. “Actually, you might want to make a large pot. We’re going to have extra hands in here soon.”

  Her purple braids swung with her curt nod. She was a woman of few words at her best. Without coffee, she was practically mute.

  I returned to my bread. By the time the rest of
the team showed up the bread orders were complete. Loaves of sourdough, sweet raisin, cinnamon swirl, marble rye, and whole wheat were stacked in neat rows on the island, awaiting delivery.

  “It’s great to have Carlos back,” Sterling commented, reaching for an apron.

  “He’s not back,” I replied with a bit too much force.

  Sterling kindly ignored my tone. “Ramiro looks just like him. It’s crazy.”

  “I know. I’d seen pictures of him, but the resemblance is even more striking in person.”

  “He seems like a good kid.” Sterling pushed up the sleeves on his hoodie. His tattoos were expanding. In addition to a hummingbird on his forearm, which I knew he had inked in a tribute to his mom, there was an infinity loop, a half-moon, and a short poem.

  “Yes. I’m just glad to have our first meeting over. I haven’t been that nervous in years.”

  “Tell me about it.” Sterling’s intensely blue eyes flashed. “We’ve all been counting down the days till Carlos’s arrival. Hopefully, you’ll be able to chill now.”

  “Have I not been chill?”

  Sterling’s eyes lightened. “Nah, I’m messing with you.”

  I thought about hitting him with a wooden spoon, but instead I called the whole team into the kitchen. “Thanks for putting in such an amazing effort lately, everyone. I know it’s been a bit of a whirlwind around here and for the next couple days that’s probably going to ramp up. I want to send Sterling and either Steph or Bethany to Uva today to do the prep work for the wedding with Carlos.”

  Bethany raised her hand, which was still tomato red from her food-dye incident. “Pick me. Pick me!” Then she blushed and turned to Stephanie. “I mean unless you want to go.” I noticed that she had more makeup on than normal and had tied her wavy curls up with two gold barrettes.

  Steph shrugged.

  “Okay, Bethany, you and Sterling will go with Carlos. Andy, you’ll be at the espresso bar; Steph, you can do pastries. I’ll do the morning deliveries and then divide my time between here and the winery. We’ve hired extra staff for the weekend, too.” A wave of dizziness hit me as I listed off everything we had left to do. “I made a sheet-pan Greek chicken lunch, so whenever you get hungry, stick it in the oven at three twenty-five for twenty to thirty minutes. Oh, and there’s one more thing that I think you should all know. Lance’s dad died. He may be in later today. If I’m not here, please send him out to the winery.”

  “That’s too bad,” Andy said. “I didn’t know Lance had a dad.”

  Bethany chuckled. “Everyone has a dad, duh.”

  “I mean I get that obviously he had to have had a dad at some point. I guess I didn’t know he kept in touch with family.” Andy stuck his tongue out at Bethany, causing her neck to warm with bright pink splotches. “I’ve never heard him say anything about his family.”

  “Me neither,” I concurred with Andy. “I only recently learned that he has family nearby. On that note, his brother and some of his colleagues may be in later today as well. Lance has asked to extend an invitation to them. If they come asking for me, I want to talk to them. Otherwise, I’m going to be focused on the painstaking task of cutting out dozens of paper-thin sugar flowers today and am going to hole myself up back here.”

  “You got it, boss,” Andy replied with a salute. “No distractions, unless it’s Lance and his brother.” He made an exaggerated face while emphasizing “brother.”

  I decided it was best to keep my staff in the dark about Lance’s family dynamics. There was no point in worrying them, especially because I didn’t know if there was a reason to worry yet. Even if Lance was right, the task of proving that someone had disconnected Mr. Brown from his life-support machines seemed impossible.

  “Perfect. Thanks again, guys. I don’t know what I would do without the four of you.” My throat tightened. “I know we’re going to have to hire more help, but you are literally my dream team.”

  Sterling flicked a pizza cutter, making the stainless steel wheel spin. “Jules, we’ve got your back. Torte is the best place in Ashland. And your mom is like a mom to all of us. We want her wedding to be amazing too.”

  I blinked back a tear. “I know, and that’s why I can’t thank you enough.”

  “You can thank me in free food anytime,” Andy teased. “My mouth is already watering over the thought of a Greek chicken lunch. Is it lunchtime yet?”

  “Free food is always on the table,” I bantered back. “In fact, I’m planning to order a bunch of pizzas for anyone who wants to come help decorate and make sugar flowers tonight.”

  Andy snapped, “You had me at free pizza.”

  Steph tugged on one of her braids. “School’s out for summer, so I’m free.”

  “Me too,” Bethany added, stealing a quick glance at Andy.

  Sterling looked around at his coworkers. “I was already going to say yes, but now if I don’t I’m going to sound like a tool.”

  I laughed. “Great. You’ll get paid your regular salaries.”

  “Plus pizza. Don’t forget about the pizza,” Andy said.

  “Absolutely, plus pizza, and we’ll be at the winery so wine and soft drinks are on me.”

  Everyone returned to their stations. I breezed through the morning deliveries, eager to get back to work on the wedding cake. As I crossed Main Street past the Lithia bubblers I spotted the woman in the black leather jacket whom I had seen Clarissa meeting with the other morning. She was sitting on a park bench in deep conversation with none other than Adam, Chef Garrison’s employee, whom I’d seen hanging around Torte. Weird.

  I half expected to see a bunch of motorcycles parked in the plaza because Adam was dressed in black leather chaps and a biker jacket. The woman reached behind her and pulled out a rolled-up piece of paper. She handed it to Adam. His face darted from side to side. Was he checking to make sure no one was watching them?

  He stuffed the paper into his jacket, stood, glanced around again, and then headed north on Main Street toward Ashland Springs. At the same time, the woman looked up and met my eyes. She froze.

  What was her deal?

  Her face betrayed her. She looked like a deer caught in headlights.

  A city truck rumbled past the bubbling fountains. The woman used the distraction to push to her feet and quickly walk away.

  As soon as the truck passed by, I made a beeline for her. She took off in the opposite direction toward the Merry Windsor. Fortunately, I have long legs and used to run track in high school. I caught up with her in five quick strides. “Hey, do I know you?” I asked, when she gave up and stopped in front of Richard Lord’s hotel. From the outside the hotel resembled an English manor house with its stone foundation, slate tile roof, brick chimneys, and half-timbered black and white framing. It was no wonder that when tourists saw pictures of the romantic inn online and noted that each room in the hotel was themed after a Shakespearean character, they booked a stay at the Merry Windsor. Little did they know that it was no more than a cheap façade. The inside of the hotel was rundown with old, water-stained carpets and the smell of mildew. Richard’s themed rooms consisted of faded drapes and bedding, gaudy brass doorknobs and lighting, and a few pencil-drawn sketches of Helen or Romeo in costume. Many times, I had overheard tourists complain about the hotel not meeting their expectations.

  She leaned against a white arbor on the side of the hotel. “I don’t think so. The name’s Megan.”

  “I saw you hanging around the bakeshop a few days ago.” I pointed to Torte.

  Her deep-set eyes gave away nothing. She flipped the collar up on her leather jacket. “Nope. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m Jules. I own Torte, the pastry shop across the street.” I pointed to Torte’s bright awnings. “I’m sure that I saw you meeting with Clarissa from the arts council last week.” It wasn’t like me to be quite this pushy, but it couldn’t be an accident that I had seen her and Adam on the same day at Torte and now together this morning.

&nb
sp; Something flickered in her eyes. “Right. I had a meeting at your pastry place. Good stuff.”

  “What brings you to Ashland?” I asked.

  “Work.” She reached into her jacket pocket and removed a business card. “I’m doing some work for Lance. I think you might know him.”

  I read her card: “Megan Antonini, Private Detective.”

  This was the PI Lance had hired?

  “You’re Jules. He told me about you.” Her fierce stare was unsettling. “You’re hosting the wedding, right? He told me you were cool with us crashing the party. Thanks for that.”

  I wasn’t sure if I should trust her. Her attitude had shifted so quickly. “What are you doing on the plaza this morning?”

  She glanced around us. Two guests had emerged from the hotel with paper cups of coffee. “Surveillance.”

  “On the Merry Windsor?”

  “No. For Lance. You heard, right? His dad died this morning, and there are some extenuating circumstances that I’m not at liberty to discuss.”

  If she knew about Lance’s dad I was more inclined to believe her. “Yeah. He called me earlier.”

  “Then you know we’re at mission critical right now. It’s imperative that I follow up with every lead as soon as possible, since this case might be hard to prove.”

  No one in Ashland spoke like Megan. What did “mission critical” even mean? And why was she in Ashland if Lance’s dad died—or had been killed—in Medford?

  “I know it’s kind of unconventional to do a sting at a wedding. Lance told me about your secret plans. I appreciate you being game to letting us crash the party. I’m hoping to bag a killer this weekend.”

  That sounded like the last possible thing I wanted to have happen at Mom’s wedding. I sighed. What had I gotten us into? Then in the same breath, I thought about Lance. I had to help him.

  Megan continued. “Look, I don’t want to be seen talking to you. It could give us away, but if you see or think of anything between today and the wedding, you call me. Got it?”

  I nodded.