A Batter of Life and Death (19 page)

I came closer to see what they were looking at. Sure enough, there were shoe prints from the farthest table underneath the chalkboard all the way to the front door.

“Why do you say he?” I asked. “You think it was a man?”

“A man, or a woman wearing men’s shoes.” The Professor shone a pocket flashlight on the prints. “Those are big feet. From the looks of it, I’d say size eleven or twelve in men’s shoes.”

So much for Linda as a suspect.

The Professor called Thomas over to take photos of the prints and the damage. Thomas snapped shots of the large prints on the floor. There was only one person who I thought the prints could belong to, and he’d been sneaking around town dressed in black last night—Sebastian. The only question I had was why? What could he have been looking for in Marco’s things? Maybe a clue that would have led Thomas and the Professor to him as the murderer?

A chill ran up my spine. I could have been alone with a murderer last night.

Chapter Twenty-three

“Jules, are you okay? You look a little pale.” Thomas looped the camera around his neck.

“Huh?”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. Fine. I was just wondering when we can start to clean up this mess. Customers are going to start lining up outside soon.” I glanced behind me at the window. It was true. The sun had begun to rise, warming the dew on the pavement and illuminating the glistening leaves.

Thomas asked the Professor, “Are we done here?”

The Professor stood and tapped his fingers on his beard. “I do believe we have everything we need.”

“Who do you think did this?” I couldn’t help asking. Mom shot me a warning look.

“As the bard says, ‘suspicion always haunts the guilty mind.’ I believe we’ll know the identity of our suspect soon.” He tucked his notebook back into his breast pocket and gave it a little pat.

Thomas caught my eye. He gave me a look that said, don’t ask. Translating the Professor’s words can be a challenge. It makes me wonder if he knows more than he lets on, or if he has a unique approach to solving crime.

He kissed Mom’s hand, then turned and bowed to me. “Sadly, my fair ladies, I believe you are familiar with cleaning up our dust.”

Last summer Torte was the site of a murder. Mom and I had had to have the space professionally cleaned before reopening to our customers. This time all it needed was a good dusting and mopping. We were up to the task.

The Professor asked Thomas to accompany him to headquarters where they’d go over the evidence they’d collected. Mom and I stretched rubber gloves over our arms and started scrubbing. She tackled the floors. I took on the countertops. By the time Andy and Stephanie arrived for their shifts, the shop sparkled. We were ready for customers. The only problem was that we didn’t have anything baked to sell them.

We pride ourselves on baking all of our cakes, pastries, and breads fresh daily. Missing out on our prep time was going to set us back for the entire day.

Mom instructed Andy to fire up the espresso machine and get drinks cranking as fast as he could. At least customers could get their caffeine hit while waiting for breakfast. Stephanie started in on breakfast bars. Basically a glorified cookie bar that we chock full of oats, cranberries, and walnuts to make it healthier. The bars were quick. We could slice them in large portions and serve them warm.

I assembled fruit parfaits with fresh berries and yogurt. Then I whipped eggs, milk, fresh herbs, and cheese together. I’d scramble the eggs and serve them in warm tortillas with sausage or veggies. Mom began mixing bread dough like a possessed woman. Years of running a bakeshop meant that she didn’t even have to look at what her hands were doing or consult a recipe. By the time my parfaits were lined up in the pastry case and my eggs warming on the stove, she’d mixed three different batches.

Our morning offerings were going to be modified for the next couple hours, but as I looked at the assortment of dishes we’d pulled together in less than thirty minutes, I was pretty proud of our little team. Customers would still have breakfast options, and we wouldn’t lose out on a morning’s worth of sales.

Sterling slipped in right as Andy flipped the sign on the front door to open. I noticed he and Stephanie refused to greet one another.

We all worked at lightning speed for the first hour, trying to catch up. I didn’t have a chance to run interference between the two of them or think any further on Marco’s murder. Customers loved the parfaits and egg wraps. Maybe we’d have to add them to the menu. Mom, Stephanie, and I whizzed around each other, kneading bread dough, stirring sauces on the stove, and pushing tins of muffins and cakes into the oven.

By a little after seven, we’d baked enough to fill half of the pastry case. Nina and Linda arrived together. Thank goodness neither of them had tried to get an early start on their signature desserts this morning. That would have been a disaster.

“You’re all buzzing like bees around honey this morning,” Linda said as she removed a peach-colored tailored raincoat and hung it on a hook.

Nina’s hair was tied in one large braid down her back. Her open-toe sandals peeked out from beneath her flowing peasant skirt. “I have to say it’s been kind of a nice break not to have to rise before dawn. I could get used to sleeping in like this.”

Most people probably wouldn’t consider seven sleeping in, but in a baker’s world sleeping in until any time after four in the morning is pure luxury.

The kitchen quickly became cramped. My panna cotta was resting in the fridge and Torte was under control, so I decided to pop over to the Merry Windsor before I had to be on set. I wanted to have a chat with Sebastian about what he was really doing lurking around in the dark last night.

I wanted to tell Linda about finding her recipe in Marco’s things, but Thomas had been so uptight about me being involved in the investigation, I thought I’d better let it be.

I ducked out of the kitchen and checked in with Andy before leaving.

“How’s it going?” I brushed away coffee grounds that spilled as he tamped a shot.

“Not bad, boss. Customers are sucking down the special.” Andy foamed milk and had to raise his voice over the sound of the steam. “We might need more pumpkin.”

“Really?”

“Yep. They’re flying out the door.”

“I have to step out for a moment anyway. I’ll swing by the store and grab some more on my way back.”

“Cool.” Andy cut the steam and poured hot milk in a circular motion into the white paper cup in front of him. He finished off the latte by hand, designing an outline of a pumpkin in the foam.

“Gorgeous.” I nodded my approval and hurried out of the bakeshop before anyone stopped me to help with another project.

The temperature had risen by a few degrees since the early morning. I crossed the plaza toward the Merry Windsor. A group of middle-school students gathered in front of the tourist information booth. They scrolled on their phones and snapped selfies while killing time before school.

I had to admit Ashland without the throng of summer tourists was nice. Crossing this way in peak season would have required weaving in between out-of-town visitors sporting fanny packs and cameras around their necks and trying to dodge the big tour buses that shuttle visitors in.

The Merry Windsor may have looked the part of traditional Elizabethan Tudor with its exposed beams and whitewashed walls, but it was anything but merry. Richard Lord sucked any hint of merriment from the dated space with his entitled attitude.

His employees were surly and slow. Anyone showing up to work at Torte with an attitude like most of Richard’s staff would not be invited back to work the next day.

I took a deep breath in as I pushed open the heavy doors and tried to avoid a stain on the forest-green carpet. The carpet had been well worn from years of tourists weaving a path in it. I couldn’t tell if the stain was new or decades old; the floor was pocked with stain marks and smelled of baking soda trying to mask something—probably mold.

There was no sign of Richard as I strolled past the kid manning the front desk. I’ve found that if you act like you’re supposed to be somewhere, most people don’t ask many (if any) questions. It didn’t matter anyway. The kid didn’t look up from his cell phone as I passed by.

The long, dark hallway leading to the kitchen and dining room was adorned with a variety of Shakespearean items—a bust, paintings of Stratford-upon-Avon, and butcher paper with sticky notes where guests rated OSF plays. It smelled of mildew and chlorine from the pool. Richard had dumped a bunch of money into upgrading his new espresso bar, but the rest of the hotel was in desperate need of a face-lift.

In the dining room, a couple was helping themselves to the breakfast buffet. By the looks of things there wasn’t going to be much competition for the heaping piles of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of them.

My stomach rumbled. I guess I’d forgotten to eat breakfast in the flurry of police activity at Torte. I’d have to grab something before we started filming
Take the Cake
. I didn’t want a growling stomach on national TV.

The Merry Windsor’s kitchen was at least twice the size of Torte’s. In the busy season they served three meals a day to a packed hotel of guests. We weren’t equipped to turn out that amount of food at Torte. I glanced with just the slightest hint of envy at the brand-new industrial ovens and indoor grill that Richard had had installed.

A chef and sous-chef were going over the lunch menu when I walked in. They stopped their conversation. “Can I help you?” The chef looked up.

“I’m looking for Sebastian. The French chef. Is he around?”

The chef nudged his sous-chef and rolled his eyes. “Sebastian’s out back taking a phone call, but I’d use the term ‘French’ loosely.”

I must have looked puzzled.

The sous-chef cracked up and began speaking in a mock French accent. “Dis is not how you prepare cakes, non?”

It must have been an inside joke because they both broke into fits of laughter and ignored me. I decided to take a walk to the back alley and find Sebastian myself.

I exited through the far end of the hotel. The Merry Windsor’s alley has shops on both sides. I stepped outside and heard the sound of a man arguing. I could see Sebastian, still clad in all black, two shops down near a Dumpster. I couldn’t see who he was arguing with.

I tried to creep closer, keeping my shoulders in contact with the Merry Windsor’s wall.

Sebastian had his back to me. Where was the person he was arguing with?

I inched closer. There was no sign of anyone else in the alley.

Were my eyes playing tricks on me, or was Sebastian holding a phone up to his ear?

He was. But that couldn’t be right. He was speaking without the slightest hint of a French accent.

Chapter Twenty-four

I bumped into a recycling bin. A loud thud sounded in the alley. Sebastian snapped his head around and narrowed his eyes on me. He sprinted off the other way before I could say anything.

He wasn’t French! Why would he lie about being French?

A delivery truck rumbled up behind me and tapped his horn. I jumped out of the way and tried to enter the Merry Windsor from the back door. It was locked. For a brief moment I considered taking off after Sebastian, but after Thomas’s warning and attempt at cuffing me to a booth this morning, I decided I should probably stay out of it.

Instead I’d go get more pumpkin for Andy and report to the Black Swan for hair and makeup. It was a good thing that someone was going to make my face look presentable this morning. I had a feeling that after my late night, my face could use a touch-up.

After picking up pumpkin at the market, I paused to chat with two fellow shop owners on my way to Torte. “Heard you’re going to be a regular old-fashioned TV star,” the owner of the Fountain Pen said as she positioned wrapping paper and embossed envelopes in her window display.

“Looks that way.” I gave her my best movie star pose. “You know from here on out I won’t be able to associate with the common townspeople.”

We laughed. She stepped off the curb to get a better vantage point. “What do you think?”

“It’s great. I love all the color. And the wrapping paper. It’s so rich. Fall just might be my favorite season. I’d forgotten how much I missed our changing seasons.”

“We’re one of the lucky places that actually has four seasons. I tell that to all the tourists. Winter, spring, summer, and fall—there’s always something new to experience around here. I’ve lived here for fifty years and it never ceases to amaze me how beautiful our little town is during each season.”

She stepped back onto the curb and gave her window display a nod of approval. “It does look nice, doesn’t it?”

I agreed and started to continue on.

She stopped me. “Juliet, you tease, but thank you for being on the show. It’s a great thing for Ashland. You’re helping all of us out. It’s all the downtown association is talking about.”

Maybe I needed to stop being so flippant about
Take the Cake,
I thought as I crossed the plaza. Of course, given how things had been going so far, I wasn’t sure how Ashland or any of us were going to end up being portrayed on the show.

Torte wasn’t too busy, a handful of customers were waiting in line for espresso drinks and pastries, but otherwise only a few tables were taken.

I rested the pumpkin on the espresso bar. “Just grabbing my dessert,” I called, as I slipped past the line. “You guys are good?”

Sterling ran his hand over the top of the pastry case. “It’s under control.”

I grinned and hurried to the back. Linda and Nina must have already left for the Black Swan. Mom and Stephanie each held dishrags. A bucket of water with vinegar sat in the middle of the island. I could smell the natural cleaning solution.

“Another mess?” I scrunched my brow.

Mom wrung her dishrag in the water.

Stephanie scowled. “Why are we cleaning up after those two? It doesn’t seem fair.”

Mom held the dripping rag above the bucket. “At the moment, I’d have to agree with you, Stephanie. I didn’t count on the fact that our guests wouldn’t be cleaning up after themselves.”