Live and Let Pie Read online

  He paused to catch his breath as Rosa circulated by with a tray of pink champagne sponge cakes layered with French pastry cream and raspberry puree. “Would you like a cake?” Her Spanish accent and the almost romantic cadence to her speech reminded me of Carlos.

  “Oh, don’t mind if I do,” Lance said, helping himself to a tea-sized cake. “Enchanted.” He gave Rosa a half bow then turned to me. “Who is this Latin beauty?”

  Rosa blushed. She had good reason. Lance appraised her from head to toe. Coming from anyone but him, the gesture could have been interpreted as indecent, but Lance took his role as artist director seriously. He was constantly scouting new talent and seeking people with unique features for roles as extras onstage. Rosa was a natural beauty. She wore little to no makeup. Her long dark hair curled around her heart-shaped face, and her wide brown eyes held a deep intelligence.

  “Don’t pay any attention to him,” I assured her. “He’s incorrigible.”

  Lance gasped. “Moi? Please, darling. I simply must comment on elegance and fabulous bone structure when I see it.” He flicked his wrist in the air. “Rosa, call me if you ever want a moment in the spotlight. I have just the dress for you. It would accentuate your womanly curves and that dainty waist.” He let out an audible gasp.

  Rosa stood speechless. She shot me a look that reminded me of a deer in headlights.

  “I promise, he’s harmless, but if left to his own devices he’s going to try to convince you to audition for the theater.” I nudged her toward a group of women who had just entered the bakeshop.

  “No, thanks. I don’t think I’m meant to be on the stage,” Rosa said to Lance, and then quickly made her escape toward the women. I noticed Pam in the middle of the group. She spotted me too and headed our way.

  “Lance, hands off my new staff. I’m trying to get them acclimated to Torte.”

  He pretended to be injured. “As am I.”

  I changed the subject. “Sorry, Malcolm. I think you were going to say something else about the lot.”

  “What?” Malcolm wasn’t listening to me. He and Pam exchanged a frigid stare. Instead of joining our conversation, Pam pursed her lips at Malcolm, pivoted, and returned to the group of women she’d come in with.

  Odd.

  Malcom’s eyes lingered in Pam’s direction as he spoke. “The lot is situated on what we call ‘Bed-and-Breakfast Row.’ Those are established historical homes with high values. Can you imagine sticking a bunch of tiny homes there?”

  Lance interrupted. “Enough talk about our problems. We’re here to celebrate. Come, show us the basement.” He turned to Malcolm. “I’ve already been privy to a first look, but I’m sure you’ll be impressed with the clean design and blend of modern-meets-rustic touches that Juliet has created.”

  Malcom agreed, but not without a final plea, which almost felt like a demand given his severe tone. “I would appreciate your support on this issue as a small-business owner. Can I count on you as another voice and advocate for affordable housing?”

  I glanced at Lance who rolled his eyes and shrugged. “What kind of support are you thinking of?” Not that I didn’t want to help, but at the same time I had enough on my plate at Torte. Plus, I wasn’t interested in getting involved in a huge battle with the city, Edgar, or anyone else vying for the empty lot.

  “Your commitment is the only thing I need at the moment. I’ll be in touch though. I’m working on crafting a formal letter to the city as well as staging some protests here in the plaza that should garner good press coverage. You put a starving actor on the street with a sign and call the media. Bam! Front-page feature. That will force the city to listen. If they want to keep OSF revenue here in Ashland, then they’re going to have to meet our demands.” He paused and glanced in Pam’s direction again. She was chatting happily with her friends. “This is on the city’s shoulders. They’ve allowed homeowners like Edgar Hannagan to ruin Ashland. Edgar doesn’t care about the greater good. He’s selling to make a buck—the highest buck possible—and that will jeopardize the entire future of OSF. We cannot allow money-hungry vultures like him to inflate the price. Have you seen the shack he’s living in?”

  Malcom didn’t wait for us to respond. I wasn’t even sure that he was aware that Lance and I were still there. “It’s a complete teardown. It’s not worth a penny, and he’s trying to say the structure alone is valued at over $300,000. Do you know that he bought the entire property, land included, for $25,000 and hasn’t done a single thing with it since 1970? It’s ludicrous, and if the city doesn’t do something to stop this market gouging then they are going to be in for a rude awakening, as are all of us. Am I right, Lance?”

  Lance sighed and adjusted his tie. “Enough, enough.” His long fingers brushed the air. “Do you smell that? Sourdough bread and vanilla cakes? That, my friend, is the stuff of dreams. Let’s drop the high-pressure pitch and go get a better whiff.” He kissed my cheeks and dragged Malcolm downstairs. Maybe the smell of wood-fired breads and hot-from-the-oven pies would ease Malcolm’s stress. I’ve always thought that the scents from a commercial kitchen should be bottled and sold as anxiety reducers. Like a modern version of smelling salts. For me, there’s nothing more calming than the smell of a working kitchen—whether it’s a simmering pot of soup or sweet golden pastry.

  Pam motioned for me to join her friends. “Jules, look what we wore for the occasion.” She tucked her hair behind her ear to reveal cupcake earrings. “Aren’t they cute? My friend Wendy makes them.” All the women showed off their pastry-inspired jewelry—necklaces, bracelets, earrings, and bangles designed like miniature cakes and ice-cream sundaes. “We had these made for you.” Pam handed me a package wrapped in red tissue paper.

  Inside were a pair of earrings that were a perfect replica of our Torte aprons.

  “Thank you. These are great.” I immediately put them on.

  Pam pointed to the coffee bar. “Hang on a minute, ladies, Jules and I will get some of those cold-brew samples for everyone.” She pulled me toward the espresso counter. “I saw you speaking with Malcolm. What did he want? What did he say? Was he talking about me? I could tell from his body language that you weren’t talking about pastries. Were you talking about me? Did he tell you about the letter?”

  “No. What letter?” I was taken aback by her barrage of questions.

  “Never mind.” Pam waved me off. “He’s trying to get you on his side, isn’t he? Don’t go there, Jules. The lot is going to sell to me or one of my neighbors. I met with Henry. He lives on the hill across from me. You’d probably recognize it because it’s in a constant state of missing paint. The man cannot pick a paint color to save his life. He’s an artist and regular fixture in Ashland. I think his family was one of the first to settle this area. Do you know him?”

  I nodded, remembering my initial meeting with Henry, who had been splattered in paint. “Yeah, I met him the other day with Gretchen—the director of the homeless council.”

  “Don’t put me in a bad mood, Juliet, by mentioning her name either.” Pam’s face scrunched in a scowl. “There is no way we’re having a homeless camp in the neighborhood. That I can guarantee.”

  “Okay.” I didn’t ask for clarification. “You were saying something about Henry?”

  Her face relaxed. “Yes, Henry has been an absolute doll. It’s funny. We’ve lived near each other for years, but it took this debate to get us talking. Henry is on my side and so are the other neighbors who will be impacted the most by the sale of Edgar’s lot, and everyone agrees that I should get the lot. My plans will preserve the neighborhood. He has such great perspective that can only come from someone who has witnessed the changes in Ashland over decades.”

  “What are your plans?” I intentionally didn’t expand on my conversation with Malcolm.

  “I’ll demo Edgar’s property. There’s no value in it and it’s an eyesore, and then I’ll expand my driveway and add additional parking for my guests. Henry and I discussed drafting an agree
ment in which any neighbors directly surrounding the lot would have access to park there as well. It’s the fairest option and will ensure that Ashland’s most historic district will be preserved for future generations. Please don’t align yourself with Malcolm. He’s making enemies fast, and as a theater donor I believe that should have the board rethinking their policies. My friends and I are talking about pulling our support if OSF decides to forge ahead with this ridiculous plan.”

  “Wow, I had no idea,” I said, arranging taster cups of cold brew on a tray for Pam.

  She patted my arm. “I know you didn’t, dear. That’s why I wanted to make sure you were in the loop. By the way, I invited Henry. He said that he and Edgar might drop by. If you see him you should try to get him talking. You won’t believe how much he knows about Ashland and the history of the Rogue Valley. He’s like a walking encyclopedia.”

  We delivered the coffees and Pam dropped the subject. She and her friends left shortly after, and I returned to chatting with well-wishers. One thing was certain, if Mom and the Professor decided to build a dream house I was going to caution them to look for another lot. I didn’t want them caught up in the growing battle for Edgar’s property.

  Chapter Ten

  As the day wore on, I pushed all thoughts of the vacant lot from my mind. It wasn’t hard to do, given the constant stream of customers flowing through the front door and Andy and Sequoia’s constant bickering. They pulled shots with lightning speed but were barely civil to one another. On more than one occasion, I had to reprimand them for bickering in front of customers.

  The other new staff appeared to be finding perfect rhythms. Rosa and Bethany tag-teamed between running the register and bringing trays of pastries and premade sandwiches up and down the stairs. Marty was right at home in the kitchen. His boisterous laugh carried up between the floors. Customers raved about his sourdough bread and sea salt and honey butter. Each time I checked in with Sterling he reported that Marty was a breeze to work with.

  Late in the afternoon, I had gone upstairs to refill my coffee. The pro and con of owning a bakeshop was the constant access to a variety of caffeinated beverages. When I’m baking, I tend to drink—or as Mom claims, “guzzle”—copious amounts of coffee. It’s hard to resist the lure of Torte’s Mexican blend with notes of chocolate, allspice, and smoked cedar. I knew I should cut back, but when the scent of the roast wafted downstairs I couldn’t resist.

  “Hey, boss, you have to check this out,” Andy said, as I poured myself a cup.

  “What’s that?” I glanced around, expecting him to launch into another round of complaints about Sequoia.

  Sequoia was occupied with refilling coffee in the dining room.

  He motioned to Rosa who was taking orders at the register. “You have to watch Rosa in action. She has mad skills.”

  “Mad skills?” I took a sip of my coffee, not wanting to tally how many cups I’d had thus far today. At least my hands weren’t shaking. That was a good sign that I was still within my caffeine limit.

  “Yeah. This is awesome. Perfect timing.” He waved a greeting to a large group of tourists and two teenage boys who had just entered the bakeshop. Then he pulled me over to the register. “Rosa, do your trick for Jules,” he whispered so that the tourists ogling the pastries on display couldn’t hear him.

  She smiled. “It is not a trick.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked, cradling the warm coffee mug in my hands.

  “Rosa can peg any customer’s drink just by looking at them,” Andy said with a touch of pride. “Mad skills, I’m telling you.”

  “It is nothing.” She scoffed off his compliment. “It is simply that I have learned to observe people.”

  “Do it for Jules, before they order,” Andy insisted, giving the group a wide smile. They were still contemplating their pastry options. “Those two,” Andy said, nodding to two preteen boys. “What will they order?”

  Rosa studied the boys for a minute. “Chocolate-dipped meringue cupcakes and hot chocolates with extra whipping cream and marshmallows.”

  Sure enough, when the boys stepped forward to place their order, Rosa had nailed it.

  “No, no, wait,” Andy said. “That’s too easy. Of course, teenagers are going to order hot chocolate and the sweetest cupcakes in the case. Do it again with the tourists.” He clapped softly as the large group continued to vacillate over which decadent pastry to order.

  Rosa laughed. I appreciated that she went along with Andy’s request.

  “Okay, I will try.”

  We huddled together. “This woman near the front with the expensive purse, she will order a nonfat latte with almond milk and no pastries. Her friend who is wearing the jean jacket will order an iced mocha and three strawberry macarons. The man near the back will order a black coffee and a slice of the chocolate-mousse pie, and the other man—hmmm—” She paused for a moment. “Oh yes, sí, I think he will order a cappuccino and a blue cheese, spinach, and chive scone.”

  Andy snapped his fingers. “Wait and get ready to be amazed.”

  He returned to the espresso machine to make the hot chocolates. I pretended to take inventory of the pastry case while Rosa rang up the group. Once again, she had predicted their order almost to the letter. Her only mistake was that the woman in the jean jacket ordered two strawberry and one salted-caramel macarons.

  “Told you!” Andy called from the opposite side of the counter.

  “Impressive,” I said to Rosa.

  She plated the pastries. “It is nothing. After twelve years of working in the food business you learn to watch and observe people, sí?”

  I nodded.

  She handed the customers their plates. When they were out of earshot she continued. “That and if you watch you can see where their eyes linger on the pastries. But do not tell Andy, he thinks I am a genius.” She grinned.

  We shared a chuckle before I returned to the kitchen. I liked Rosa’s energy and having someone closer to my age. I had a feeling we were going to become fast friends. She and Marty brought experience to Torte. That would be a good thing when it came to mentoring some of the younger staff.

  When I went downstairs I spotted Henry and Edgar seated near the fireplace. The two older gentlemen were deep in conversation, and from the furrow in Edgar’s brow it didn’t appear like they wanted company. I tried to scoot past them, but Henry saw me and raised his coffee cup. “Come join us.”

  Edgar was visibly irritated that his longtime friend had invited me over.

  “Glad you two could make it.” I kept my tone light. “I won’t keep you, but have you tried the pastry samples upstairs?”

  Henry clapped Edgar on the back. “I was just saying that they didn’t make coffee like this back in our day, did they, Edgar?”

  “Nope.” Edgar bristled at Henry’s touch.

  “Sit.” Henry patted the empty chair next to him.

  “I don’t want to interrupt your conversation.”

  “No. Don’t pay any attention to Edgar’s scowl. He always looks like that.” Henry patted the chair again.

  I sat down. They both had black coffees in front of them. I wasn’t surprised. Their generation hadn’t grown up with lattes or espresso. “Pam tells me that you’re an expert on Ashland’s history,” I said to Henry.

  Henry chuckled. “I don’t know about that, but when you’ve been around as long as Edgar and me you have some tales to tell.”

  Edgar, who hadn’t bothered to change out of his tattered clothing, gave Henry a strange look.

  “You were both here in the sixties, right? What was the plaza like back then?” I pointed behind us.

  “Nothing like this.” Henry broke off a piece of cookie. He had changed out of his painter’s overalls, but his fingernails were caked with dried paint. “It was your typical small town. A drugstore, service station, market, cleaners. I remember I used to get to drive my dad’s Ford Mustang into town to get supplies at the Coast to Coast auto store. It was right
across the street, remember, Edgar?”

  Edgar frowned. “No, the hotel was across the street. That I remember because I took Anna Mill to prom there.”

  “Anna Mill?” I interrupted. “Was she related to George Mill?”

  One of them kicked me under the table. I wasn’t sure who had kicked, but I let out a little yelp and rubbed my calf. Neither of them responded.

  “Yeah, Anna is George’s younger sister,” Edgar finally replied.

  “You knew George?”

  “Everyone knew George,” Henry said, cutting off Edgar before Edgar could speak. “The Mill family owned almost all of the Rogue Valley. Unless you were living under a rock, you knew the Mills.”

  “Owned everything? Not everything,” Edgar said.

  I got the impression that his memories of the Mill family weren’t happy ones.

  “Do you guys know anything about what happened to George?” I couldn’t resist at least asking. “The story I always heard was that he decided to stay when they flooded the lake.”

  “Nah. That’s not what happened.” Edgar knocked back his coffee like it was a shot of whiskey.

  Henry was silent.

  “What do you think happened?” I asked him.

  He shrugged. “That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?”

  Edgar scoffed. “I’d say more than a million.”

  There was visible tension between them.

  “If anyone would know about George’s investments, that would be you, Edgar, wouldn’t it?”

  “I’m not talking about this.” Edgar threw back his chair with unexpected force. He stomped to the stairs.

  Henry watched him for a minute and then returned his attention to me.

  “Did I say something to upset him?”

  “Don’t worry about it. Anna Mill is a touchy subject. You see, George and Edgar were best friends until Edgar fell in love with George’s little sister.”

  “Anna?”

  “Anna Mill. She was a beauty and a firecracker. George was protective of her. He was protective of everyone. She and Edgar snuck around in secret because George told Edgar he would shoot him if he so much as laid a finger on Anna. I don’t know why. Edgar was a good guy. He treated Anna well, but George wouldn’t listen to reason. Edgar was eight years older than Anna and George thought it was wrong.”