Live and Let Pie Page 8

  “Yikes.”

  The Professor nodded. “The Mill family had vast real estate holdings. I’ve been scouring through old records on microfiche and learned that he had some undisclosed business partners. I have Thomas and Detective Kerry pulling every story and article they can find on the Mill family. George had an ongoing battle with the county about restructuring the lake. He refused to sell, and at one point had threatened to chain himself to his cabin.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Here’s where it gets interesting.” The Professor leaned closer and lowered his voice. Not that it was necessary. We were the only two people left upstairs. “Right before the expansion of the lake it was rumored that George had cut a deal to sell the property to an undisclosed buyer. Which doesn’t add up, since it was public knowledge that Klamath Junction as it was known was about to be devoured by lake waters.”

  “Weird.”

  “Indeed. The local paper ran a story about the Mill family and their pioneering spirit. A photo of George with his two sisters on the porch of the original family homestead ran the day before they opened the dam and let the waters flow into Emigrant Lake. The next day he was reported missing and has never been seen since.”

  “And you think there was foul play involved?”

  The Professor finished his drink and set it on the counter. “This is between you and me, but there is most certainly damage to the skull that was recovered. Damage from some kind of a fatal blow. If it turns out to be a match with George Mill, I think we can say without hesitation that we have just uncovered an unsolved murder.”

  My breath caught in my chest for a moment. The Professor’s words made the image of the skull looping through my head suddenly have a personal attachment.

  “How do you even begin investigating a crime that took place over fifty years ago?” I asked.

  He sighed. “That, my dear, is the question.”

  Everyone returned from the basement. The happy mood broke the dark pall that had fallen over me. The Professor gave me a kind smile. “We’ll continue this conversation later. Thank you as always for your care and concern. It is one of your most endearing qualities, and one that I know you inherited from your mother.”

  I gave him a hug. Our relationship was changing and deepening. One unexpected gift of Mom and the Professor’s marriage was that I felt like I had a father figure again. He had served that role already, but now that it was official something had shifted between us. The only holdup that I couldn’t get past was that I had always known him affectionately, like everyone else in Ashland, as “the Professor.” He had mentioned on more than one occasion that perhaps I might want to call him “Doug.” Calling my stepfather “the Professor” did seem silly, but “Doug” just didn’t roll off my tongue.

  I had taken to not calling him by anything, which seemed even stranger. Eventually I was going to have to figure something out. For the moment, I was consumed with the thought of an unsolved murder. I hoped that the old case wouldn’t be too stressful for the Professor as he was trying to scale back, and I also hoped that he could solve George’s murder and bring closure to Hannah and Ellen and any of George’s remaining family.

  Once everyone left, I took the opportunity to clear my head. There’s nothing like an empty kitchen in my opinion. Baking is my form of meditation. I locked the front and headed downstairs to the gleaming kitchen. For tomorrow’s grand reopening bash, I wanted to make a signature Torte dish—raspberry bars.

  At Torte we source only the freshest local ingredients. Through the years, we had developed long-term relationships with regional farmers, who delivered their handpicked crops to our front door every few days. Raspberries were in season. Two flats had been dropped off earlier in the day. I turned on some Latin music and allowed my thoughts to drift to Carlos as I sifted flour, baking powder, and salt.

  Carlos and I had been circling through the same conversation in what seemed to be an endless loop.

  “Julieta, mi querida, you must give me a chance.” I could hear his pleading tone echo in my head as I creamed butter and brown sugar in the mixer.

  “You cannot know if I will miss the sea if you don’t allow me to come to you.”

  “But what if you’re miserable here?” I argued.

  “How can I be miserable if I am with you?” His voice was husky. “It will be a new adventure. With you in Ashland, and for Ramiro too. What are you afraid of, mi querida?”

  I didn’t have a response. He was right. There was no way to know if Carlos would be at home in Ashland without giving him a chance. I didn’t admit it to him, but I was afraid. Afraid of what might happen to us and afraid that Carlos might disrupt the idyllic life I had created for myself here. It wasn’t fair to Carlos or healthy for me to keep dragging things out between us. I needed to make a decision once and for all. Was I going to allow Carlos back into my life? Or was it time to say good-bye for good?

  I tried to center my thoughts on the present as I squeezed fresh lemon juice into the creamed butter and sugar. Next, I sifted in the flour and mixed it until it resembled coarse cornmeal. I pressed the crumbly crust into greased glass pans. Then I slid them in the ovens to bake for fifteen minutes.

  With the first layer baking, I started on the next layer. For this I whisked eggs, brown sugar, flour, and vanilla. This would create a gellike center for the bars.

  The timer dinged on the oven. I removed the pans and placed them on the countertop to cool. Then I stirred in chopped walnuts and coconut in the eggs and brown sugar. Once the crust had cooled, I arranged fresh raspberries on top and covered everything with the runny mixture. I returned the pans to the oven to bake for another thirty minutes. They could cool overnight. In the morning we would cut them in two-inch squares. The shortbread-style crust with its almost frothy, nutty coconut layer and pops of tart, juicy berries should be delicious.

  I cleaned up after myself. It was time to call it a night. My stomach flopped with eager butterflies as I exited the basement. Tomorrow we would open the new and improved Torte. I hoped that Ashland would embrace the changes we had made to the bakeshop.

  Chapter Nine

  The next morning Torte was a whirlwind of activity while we prepared to open for our first day of business with the connected spaces. We had plastered the plaza with posters about our grand reopening party. Everyone in town was invited to come see the new and improved Torte. We had spent days creating a special reopening menu complete with cherry-almond hand pies, chocolate-marshmallow cookies, banana cream cakes, hazelnut toffee, and grasshopper cheesecakes. To introduce the new staff, I asked each of them to make a dish that represented them. Rosa opted to make her signature pan de coco, Marty made dozens of loaves of his San Francisco sourdough with herb-infused butters, and Sequoia’s offering was mehndi hand cookies, a spicy cutout cookie with henna designs made with black molasses frosting.

  Vases of red roses and dainty white heliotrope were placed on the dining tables. Stephanie had sketched a drawing of the plaza and Lithia Park on the chalkboard. We had printed new menus and baked an assortment of wood-fired pizzas for tasting in the basement. Bethany agreed to snap photos and document the reopening on social media. Andy would be doing coffee cuppings throughout the day like wine tasting for coffee. He would brew a variety of our house blends and have customers inhale the scent before taking a long slurp and allowing the distinct flavors to slide down the tongue. And, finally, Sterling would give tours of the kitchen. It was going to be busy, but we were ready.

  Customers buzzed with excitement when we opened the doors and our faithful coffee and pastry lovers flooded in.

  “Jules, it’s absolutely wonderful,” Thomas’s mom, who owned A Rose by Any Other Name, said as she handed me a bountiful bouquet of white lilies with red roses, and touches of teal carnations to match our color scheme. “A reopening gift. I know you ordered the vases, but I thought it might be nice to have a statement piece to put on the front counter.”

  “Thanks. That’s so thoug
htful of you.” I breathed in the scent of the sweet lilies and placed them on the counter. “It’s gorgeous.”

  “So is Torte,” she gushed. “You and your mother have outdone yourselves. I think half of Ashland is downstairs trying to stake a claim in front of that cozy fireplace. That’s going to be the coveted spot from here on out.”

  “I hope so. We’re happy with the changes, but as you know it’s been a huge undertaking.”

  She gave me a sympathetic nod. “Owning a small business is not for the faint of heart.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You don’t need to worry though. Ashland has always embraced Torte. Just as Torte has embraced Ashland. I don’t see that changing in the near future.”

  I appreciated her support.

  “I won’t keep you. Enjoy the celebration, and congratulations.” She left me with a quick hug.

  There was no denying the depth of Ashland’s community spirit. Thomas’s mom was one of dozens of other small-business owners and regulars who stopped me throughout the reopening party to compliment us on the renovations and declare their ongoing patronage. I overflowed with happiness. And the bakeshop overflowed with people. Everywhere I looked there were locals waiting in line for tastes of Andy’s coffee special and nibbling on vanilla shortbread cut out in the Torte logo shape and iced with red and teal buttercream. I was about to go do a walk-through of the basement when I spotted Richard Lord muscle his way to the front of the coffee line.

  Richard Lord owned the Merry Windsor, a Shakespeare-themed hotel across the street, and had been a thorn in my side ever since I had returned home. He looked ridiculous as usual in purple-and-green-checked golf pants and a lime-green golf shirt with a matching cap. He elbowed an elderly woman out of the way to grab a taster of cold brew.

  Knocking it back like a shot of alcohol, he scanned the room until his eyes landed on me.

  Great. The only thing that could put a damper on this day was a run-in with Richard Lord. I considered trying to make an escape to the basement, but the crowd was too thick.

  Richard thudded in my direction. “Well, well, Ms. Juliet, the pastry princess of Ashland, prancing around with her loyal subjects lapping at her feet as usual.”

  “Hi, Richard. Glad you could make it,” I said in the flattest affect possible.

  “It’s strange. I didn’t get an invite.” He stuffed a chocolate marshmallow cookie into his mouth in one bite. Chocolate crumbs fell everywhere.

  “Everyone was invited. There were posters all over town.”

  “I’m surprised to see you spending money with reckless abandon, especially given the battle that we’re going to have over ownership of Uva. If I were you, I would be counting every pretty penny.” He grabbed another cookie, gave me a threatening stare, and headed to the basement.

  I was familiar with Richard’s intimidation tactics. He didn’t scare me. However, I was dreading having a conversation with him about Uva’s future. Carlos had negotiated the purchase of one of Ashland’s first vineyards from the former owner, Jose. He had always dreamed of finding a plot of organic farmland to cultivate grapes and grow herbs and vegetables. His visions included farm-to-table dinners and a restaurant built upon the principles of sustainability. Had I known that Richard Lord would be part of the equation, I would have urged Carlos to abandon ship. Now I found myself in an unenviable position of being business partners with Mr. Lord. The only silver lining was that Lance had swept in and purchased a percent of the winery as well. If Richard wanted to go to battle he was going to have to armor up. I had numbers on my side.

  On cue I heard Lance’s singsong voice.

  “Juliet, darling, over here!”

  I turned to see him standing on his tiptoes, peering over the crowd and waving with his fingers. He was dressed in a well-cut navy suit with a canary-yellow thin tie and a matching silk pocket square. He was accompanied by a man I recognized as OSF’s company coordinator, Malcolm Heady. Malcom had been featured in the Daily Tidings lately because of his outreach to find affordable housing for members of the company. Resident actors at OSF receive complimentary housing for their first three years with the company. OSF is one of the Rogue Valley’s largest employers. Malcolm’s responsibility was to procure housing for the company. OSF contracted with a variety of private homeowners and professional property managers for real estate near the theater complex.

  Ashland’s rental market was extremely competitive, with a less than two percent vacancy rate. Things had reached a crisis point. The housing shortage and lack of affordable housing was impacting OSF. Highly sought-after actors, technical directors, and costume designers were turning down contracts with the festival due to the housing crunch.

  According to the latest article in the newspaper, one of the reasons for skyrocketing prices was due to the state’s legalization of marijuana. When legalization passed a few years ago, growers rushed into the Rogue Valley and bought up any available acreage. That in turn sent housing costs soaring. The valley had been flush with cash ever since, forcing minimum-wage workers to move farther and farther out of town. The city council had hosted a number of public meetings on the topic and had called for proposals from builders willing to invest in affordable housing. Malcolm had been at the forefront of the campaign, urging the city not to delay and warning that OSF could suffer huge future losses if the crisis wasn’t addressed.

  I waited for them to work their way over to me.

  Lance kissed each of my cheeks. “Ashland’s pastry queen has done it again. This is fabulous, darling.”

  I brushed off his compliment.

  “Have you met Malcolm?” Lance slowly graced his hand in front of Malcolm as if they were on the stage.

  Malcom was in his early thirties with wavy blond hair and a prominent square jawline. His facial features reminded me of a young Ted Kennedy.

  “No. Great to meet you.” I shook his hand. “I’ve been reading about you in the paper, and I have to say thanks. As a small-business owner, I’m worried about housing for my staff too. I heard from one of my employees that some retail and restaurant workers are driving over an hour one way. They’re living out in Selma and way out near Dead Indian Road because they can’t afford to live in Ashland, even with roommates.”

  Malcolm’s jaw protruded as he spoke. “I’m glad to hear that you share my concerns. It’s imperative that you as a small-business owner speak up. The city council has been dragging their feet on this issue and it’s unacceptable. Unless something is done immediately to address the housing crisis Ashland is going to turn into a ghost town.”

  “A ghost town?” I said, looking around at the crowded dining room. That might be a stretch.

  “Absolutely.” He became more animated as he spoke. His hands flew in the air. He nearly knocked over a tray of green tea smoothies that Rosa was offering to guests. “We can’t sustain a town and certainly not an award-winning theater on retirees alone. How do we grow the next generation if they can’t afford to live here? Did you know that two elementary schools have been shuttered within the last decade? That’s not a statistic that the city wants tossed around, but the truth hurts. Young people and families have been priced out of this charming city and I fear that Ashland as we know and love it will be no more.”

  Lance nodded in agreement. “Malcolm is right. We lost out on a budding young starlet because she couldn’t find anywhere to live and refused to drive from White City every day. We can’t ask members of the company to sacrifice their time like that. They’re already putting in ghastly theater hours. Can you imagine having to drive winding country roads after doing a performance of Othello that doesn’t even wrap until close to midnight?”

  “No.” I hadn’t thought about the impact on actors and members of the company.

  “I’ve done my best to partner with as many homeowners as I can,” Malcolm added. “I’ve literally knocked on doors and asked if anyone is willing to rent their property. We’ve gone so far as to house a couple of the interns
in a tiny room above the Elizabethan.”

  “Really?” I was at a loss on how to respond. My first thought went to Mom’s house. Maybe if I bought it I could offer up a couple rooms for rent. I certainly didn’t need that much space myself and I spent most of my waking hours at Torte anyway.

  Malcolm clapped Lance on the back. “Things are looking up though. It sounds like a lead I have on a lot might come through. If we can finalize the deal soon, we should break ground within the month and have an OSF housing development ready by the start of next season.”

  “An OSF housing development,” I repeated.

  “Yes, the idea is that we’ll own the property, which is a good long-term investment for the company. The board has already signed off on the purchase. We’ve developed plans that will include a three-story modern apartment complex. They’ll be two-bedroom units and the lot is literally five blocks from campus.” He pointed in the direction of Edgar’s property. This was the third person interested in purchasing the lot.

  “Is there competition?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

  Malcolm nodded. “Yes. The homeless council wants to purchase the lot for a permanent housing project. I’m in support of finding solutions for the homeless but not in this location. It’s prime. The homeless council would be wise to look farther out of town—like that old abandoned farm off of Bear Creek.” He paused. “I don’t know if you know Stella Pryor?”

  I nodded.

  “She wants to put up a bunch of tiny high-end houses. Such a bizarre concept if you ask me. Luxury tiny houses? Anyway, I’ve been trying to talk sense into her. There’s no way the city council goes for that. And there’s no way the neighborhood does either. It’s interesting because in some ways both the homeless council and Stella want the land for the same goal, but with very different visions. Both of them will have an uphill battle convincing the city council to change the statutes that allow for transitional housing. Things like building code violations and lack of full utilities.”