A Batter of Life and Death (11 page)

I took the bag and followed her to the front of the shop.

She paused at the front door. “Are you sure you’re up for talking to Lance tonight? It’s been a tough day, honey. I’m worried about you.”

“I’m fine. You know me, I need a distraction. If I can’t find Lance, I’ll come back and work on the pasta sauce for a while.”

She stood on her tiptoes and kissed my cheek. “Okay, but don’t work too hard. I’ve got to go get unpacked from the trip. I’ll see you in the morning.”

I waved as she walked down Main Street. I couldn’t tell her that my motivation to see Lance tonight had less to do with the menu and more to do with murder.

Chapter Fourteen

Dusky evening light greeted me outside after I sketched out our proposed menu for Lance and locked the shop up for the night. I crossed the plaza toward the Merry Windsor Inn. Richard stood on the sidewalk smoking a cigar. He was immersed in a conversation with two other older men, all smoking. I scooted past before he noticed me.

Walking is one of my favorite pastimes, especially when it’s quiet. Ashland was quiet tonight with only a handful of diners seated at patio tables outside as I passed restaurants on my way up the hill to the theater complex.

The bright red and yellow Shakespearean banners attached to lampposts blended in the with the brilliant fall foliage on the trees. The evening light cast a sepia glow on the trees and the empty sidewalks. I took a deep breath in through my nose and let out a little sigh.

Once I made it up the hill, the bricks sat empty. Everyone was inside for the show. I crossed the street to the box office and checked in with the girl at the counter.

“I’m here to see Lance. Is he in his office?” I asked.

She glanced at her watch. “Probably. The show’s already started, so he’s finished with his intro.”

As the artistic director, Lance introduces each show. The audience—theater groupies as we sometimes call them—loves to feel like they’re getting an insider’s glimpse into the show from his perspective.

“Do you want me to call down there?” the girl asked.

“No, that’s fine. I know the way. I’ll go check.”

The box office is next to the Black Swan and located across the street from the Bowmer and Elizabethan theaters. I crossed the street and entered the modern indoor theater. I knew my way around the complex from my time spent there as a kid and from delivering cakes and pastries to the theater. OSF is by far our biggest client.

Lance’s office door was slightly open. I knocked lightly and peeked my head in.

“Juliet!” Lance removed his black hipster glasses and motioned me in. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

I sat on his black leather couch and handed him our proposed menu. “I wanted to get this to you for approval so we can order from our suppliers.”

Lance tapped his fingers on his goatee and ignored the paper I offered him. “And that’s the only reason you trekked up here, at what?” He paused and glanced at the clock on the wall. “Eight-Fifteen.”

“The party’s in a few days.” I pushed the menu closer.

He snatched it from my hand and turned it upside down on his desk. “This can wait.” He stood and came over and sat on the couch next to me. “Why don’t we talk about why you’re really here, first?”

I could feel heat rising in my cheeks. One of the major drawbacks of having fair skin is that I blush easily.

Lance noticed. “Aha! I see those fine cheekbones glowing.” He clapped his bony fingers together. “Enough with the act, Jules. You like the game of cat and mouse as much as I do. Admit it, and let’s have a little fun. Otherwise I’ll have to stalk you, and make your life positively miserable.” His eyes twinkled with devilish delight.

A smile broke on my face. Lance had me pegged. “Am I that transparent?”

He reached over and stroked my arm. “Are we talking about your skin?”

I slapped his hand away.

“Play nice,” he cautioned.

“What were you trying to hint at earlier with Philip?”

Lance clicked his tongue on his teeth. “Not so fast. Do we have a deal?”

“What kind of deal?”

“We’re going to partner up as a little team, right?”

“I guess, but I really don’t know anything. Honestly.”

He tapped my knee. “That’s why you need me.”

“So dish. What do you know?”

Lance kicked the door shut with his foot and scooted closer on the couch. “I know that Philip couldn’t have murdered that fat French chef last night.”

He looked quite pleased with himself as he sat back and waited for my response with wide eyes.

“How do you know that?”

“Because, darling, he and his little tryst were with me last night.”

“Tryst?”

Lance practically beamed. “I knew you’d love that.” He reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a tin of mints. He popped one in his mouth and offered the tin to me. “Mint?”

“No. Tell me about this tryst.”

Lance slowly slid the mint tin closed and returned it to his pocket. “Patience. Patience.”

I rolled my eyes.

He chuckled. “You can’t blame me for wanting to build a little drama into my big reveal. It’s what I do.”

I hardened my eyes.

“Okay, okay.” He lowered his voice. “Philip and his paramour were dining with me at Puck’s Pub last night.”

“You told Thomas about this, right?”

“Juliet, you’re no fun. Of course I told the authorities. Philip’s a friend and I know that that detective of yours would like nothing more than to pin this murder on Philip and close the case.”

“Thomas is not
my
detective and, really, stop with the whole theater act. You know as well as I do that neither he nor the Professor are like that.”

Lance cut me off. “We digress. What I didn’t mention was that our dinner wasn’t exclusively business.”

“Go on.”

“When Philip contacted me last year about doing the show in Ashland we talked about ways we could loop OSF in, make it mutually beneficial, you know.”

I nodded. “Shocking.”

“Business is business, darling.”

“Believe me, I know. I feel like I’m selling a little piece of my soul by doing this show.”

Lance dropped his jaw in mock surprise. “Say it isn’t so.” He turned serious for a moment, completely losing his affected tone. “Jules, you could never sell your soul. You and your mom are a different kind of breed.”

I was taken aback by his serious shift. “Wow, thanks.”

He gave me a devilish grin. “We’ll never speak of it again. Now back to this
murder
business. As I was saying, Philip and I have some plans to cross-promote each other’s shows. We met last night to discuss it and he brought along a lady friend.”

“Who?”

“I believe you know her as Luscious Linda.”

“Linda? The Southern belle? But Philip’s been totally over the top flirting with me, Mom, everyone.”

“Exactly. Throw suspicion away from his real fling.”

“Wait, did you tell Thomas that Linda was with you? I don’t understand.”

“Oh, I told him she was with us for a while, which she was. Only she claimed she had a headache once Philip and I started talking shop and she ducked out early. For all I know that Southern charmer could be our killer.”

“I don’t understand. What didn’t you tell him, then?”

“That Linda and Philip are having a smoking-hot love affair.”

“Okay?” I gave him a questioning look. “What’s the big deal?”

“First off, Linda’s in the process of a nasty divorce back home in Georgia. She doesn’t want word to get out. Philip’s not exactly eager to share the news either. It’s a conflict of interest for him to be involved with one of the contestants.”

“I’ll say.” There went my chances of winning the twenty-five grand. “Did they just hook up in town, or have they known each other for a while?”

“Philip told me they had instant chemistry when he flew out to Georgia to interview her for the show. They’ve been at it like rabbits ever since.”

“I did not need to know that. Thanks.”

Lance chuckled.

“When did Linda leave?” I wished I knew the timeline for Marco’s murder. “How long were you and Philip at Puck’s Pub? That must be the window of time that Thomas thinks Marco was killed in?”

“Easy. Easy.” He tapped his fingers on his goatee. “There’s one way to find out. Don’t you have a box of pastries or something to deliver to the police?” He gave me a knowing wink. A buzzer chimed on Lance’s desk. He looped his fingers together and stretched. “That’s my cue.”

“Wait, before you go. What about the menu?” I pointed to the list on his desk.

Lance held the door open for me. “I’m sure it’s perfect. Whatever you and you mother bake is a gift to the palate.”

“What about numbers? Do you have a head count?”

He smoothed his goatee. “Details, darling. I’ll send over a note tomorrow. Don’t worry about it. You just focus those fine cheekbones on our little project. Ta-ta.” He blew me a kiss and strolled down the hallway.

My mind spun as I walked down a dark and deserted Pioneer Street to my apartment. The air felt slightly damp and smelled of composting leaves. So Philip and Linda were an item. What was their connection to Marco and his murder? Could one of them have killed him to keep their affair secret? If Philip was at dinner with Lance when Marco was killed then he had an alibi. That made Linda the most likely suspect.

I was ready to be home and for this day to end. Then a new thought hit me. Lance was so eager to help me “investigate.” Could he have an ulterior motive? Was there a chance he was lying to try to protect his friend?

Think about it tomorrow, Jules, I told myself as I kicked off my shoes and fell onto the couch.

Chapter Fifteen

Surprisingly, I slept through the night. When I awoke the next morning, my neck was stiff and my knees cracked. I’d crashed on the couch. Ouch.

I spent a few minutes stretching before I started my morning ritual—coffee. Brewing the perfect cup of coffee is nirvana for me. I can’t do a thing until I hear the beans grinding, feel them vibrating into a fine powder in my hands and let the scent of their rich, earthy aroma hit my nose. Then, and only then, can I officially wake up. It’s less about the caffeine for me than the process. I mean, a little caffeine boost certainly helps kick-start my day, but more than anything I get wrapped up in the ritual and art of brewing my ideal cup of coffee.

Vendors send us samples of their products all the time hoping that we might serve their beans at Torte. I brought home a bag of locally roasted beans from a small roaster in nearby Medford. When I opened the bag, a robust, dark flavor filled the room. The beans were coated in fine oil, an excellent sign of freshness. Going on looks and smell alone, I was pretty sure I had a winner in my hands. But I’d have to wait for it to brew before I could give it my final seal of approval. Sometimes beans can look and smell aromatic and fresh, but then once brewed end up with a bitter aftertaste. That’s always a killer.

While I waited for my coffee to perk, I gave my face a quick rinse, brushed my hair into a high ponytail, and threw on a pair of jeans and a charcoal gray V-neck long-sleeved shirt. The crisp fall air required layering. By later in the day the temperature would warm into the mid-sixties or seventies, but mornings were cool. I didn’t bother applying any makeup. If we were going to film this morning, the Pastry Channel makeup artists wanted a blank canvas to work with. It was easy to oblige. My normal skin-care routine is pretty simple—rinse, moisturize, and apply some lip gloss and mascara, and I’m out the door.

My coffee was ready by the time I’d dressed. I added just a touch of real cream and stirred. Holding the warm mug in my hands, I held it just under my nose and took a deep breath in. Smell is equally important to the flavor of coffee, or any other food for that matter. In culinary school, one of my instructors made us plug our noses while tasting different espressos. It’s amazing how much smell informs taste. This coffee smelled ripe and aromatic.

I took a sip. Perfection. The coffee held a bold flavor, with a hint of chocolate and berries. It had a smooth finish without a hint of bitterness. I’d have to share this with Mom and Andy. It might be a contender for the bakeshop. We’d been discussing having a rotating local artisan blend “on tap” each month. Andy had approached me about hosting a coffee cupping session where customers would get an opportunity to sample a variety of blends and vote on which one they wanted in the shop. This was definitely going to get added to our list.

After I finished my coffee, I laced up my shoes and headed out into the still dark morning. I’m used to rising before the sun. I like it. I almost feel like the empty, early mornings and I share some sort of secret that the rest of the world is missing out on.

Dew coated the grass, and a slight mist hung in the air. I stuffed my hands into my jeans pockets to warm up as I took a long loop around the circular plaza before going to Torte. The shop windows were backlit, and I paused looking at elaborate fall displays. At the bookstore, the shopkeeper had erected a giant paper oak tree. Books in bright orange, greens, reds and yellows, hung from each branch and were piled like fallen leaves on the windowsill below. The kid’s clothing shop had an assortment of umbrellas, rain boots, and raincoats on display. I smiled as I passed by, pleased that my fellow business owners took such pride in creating inviting and artistic displays for customers.

When I turned the handle to Torte, the door was unlocked. Mom must have beaten me in.

“Morning!” I called out, closing the door behind me.

A chorus of “Good mornings” greeted me in return.

I stored my purse in the office and headed for the kitchen where Mom, Nina, and Linda were all gathered around the island.

“Wow. It’s a party in here this morning,” I said, grabbing an apron from the hook and turning on the water in the sink to wash my hands.

Nina unwrapped her cake tins. Mom had stacks of butter warming and our Torte recipe book open in front of her. Linda had plastic tubs of baking supplies and ingredients taking up the middle space.