A Batter of Life and Death (20 page)

“Me either. I’ll talk to Philip about it this morning. Yesterday the ‘loser’ was supposed to come clean up after the other contestants. Richard lost. I knew there was no way he’d do dish duty. Plus, I got the sense it was a gimmick for the show.” I watched as Stephanie scrubbed the wooden counter. Her fingernails were painted black. They matched her antiestablishment persona, but as I’d come to know she had a much lighter interior. Once you got past the tattoos, purple hair, and her tendency to act aloof, a sweet girl was inside.

I could relate. I’d learned to protect myself by putting up a cool exterior. I’m not entirely sure why, but I think it was the combination of losing my dad at a young age and to my early time in the theater. It’s worked for me so far. It keeps people who don’t know me at a safe distance, and those I trust and love close. Like Mom, I’m pretty good at reading people. I usually know within minutes of meeting someone if I like them or not.

Those who really know me also know that I’m fiercely protective of my friends and family. Stephanie was family now. Our entire little team was.

I promised I’d talk to Philip about the cleanup situation and retrieved my dessert from the fridge. Please let this go better than yesterday, I thought, walking to the Black Swan. It couldn’t be worse, could it?

Don’t even go there, Jules.

The small theater was a flurry of activity when I arrived. Philip barked out orders to his crew.

“You’re late!” He tapped his cell phone and gave me an exasperated look. “This is always how it goes with talent. You’re costing me money for every second we’re not shooting.”

“Me?”

“Yes. You!” He waved off a lighting technician who was holding a broken light.

Before I could respond he pushed me to the back of the theater. “Make it quick. We gotta get rolling.”

I wasn’t late. We were supposed to arrive by nine, and I knew it was definitely earlier than that.

Makeup brushes, compacts, and palettes of eye shadow covered a folding table. The makeup artist stared at my dessert.

“What’s that doing back here? Philip needs those on set.”

“I know. He told me to come straight here.”

“We can’t have dessert around my makeup.” She caressed the tip of a tiny eyebrow brush.

“I’ll go put it on set and be right back.”

“You should get a move on. You’re late, and Philip is not happy when people are late.”

“I’m not late.” I started to protest, but she waved her eyebrow brush at me. “But I was told to be here at nine.”

“Who told you that?” She dusted the brush with brown powder.

“The camera crew last night.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know how they got that information. We’ve all been on set and waiting for you.”

Great, I look like a flake, I thought. Why would the camera crew have told me to arrive late?

Sebastian and Philip stood nose to nose in the kitchen as I hurried in with my panna cotta. Philip didn’t notice me. His attention was singularly focused on Sebastian, and he didn’t look happy.

Spit sprayed as Philip spoke. “I’m not doing this again. We’re shooting this morning. End of story. You and your little problem can wait. I’m giving you the opportunity of a lifetime. A lifetime. Do you understand? You walk and you’re done. You’ll never work with the Pastry Channel again.”

Sebastian threw his hands in the air. “I cannot work like dis.” His French accent had returned.

Philip caught my eye. “Jules, what are you doing? I thought you were in makeup?”

I pointed to my panna cotta. “I just needed to set this down.” I bit my bottom lip and tried to squeeze around Sebastian to place my dessert next to the others.

Sebastian narrowed his dark eyes at me. “She is spying.”

“I’m not spying. What are you talking about?”

“I saw you sneaking around.” His accent was thick.

Philip clapped his hands together. “Enough. Both of you. Jules get to makeup. Sebastian, we’re done.”

Sebastian said something I couldn’t decipher. I slid my panna cotta on the counter and hurried back to the makeup chair.

The makeup artist quickly coated my face in foundation and patted on a layer of fine powder. She dusted my cheeks and filled in my eyebrows.

“You remind me of someone,” she said as she unscrewed a tube of bronze lip gloss.

“Who?”

“Someone famous. I can’t place the name. She played a detective on a TV show. Vera or something like that.”

“Veronica Mars?”

“Yes. That’s it.” She told me to stay still as she ran the gloss over my lips.

“I used to be so addicted to the show. It was really popular on the ship. I’ve never heard anyone compare me to her.”

“You kind of look like her. Taller of course, but I think it’s more in the way you talk or something.” She studied my face. “I think you’re good. Take a look.” She handed me a mirror.

The makeup smoothed my skin and hid any shadows under my eyes. I looked refreshed, bright, and like I belonged on a Las Vegas stage. “It’s a lot.” I frowned.

“You’ll look great under the lights. Speaking of which, you better get out there. Philip is in a mood today and you’re late.”

“I’m not late. Like I said, they told me to arrive at nine. I’m on time.”

She tapped her wrist.

I shrugged and grabbed the
Take the Cake
apron she held out for me. Everyone was positioned under the lights. Nina whispered as I took my place next to her, “Where have you been?”

Philip shot us a look and pressed his finger in front of his lips. Elliot stepped onto the judge’s stage and began his opening monologue. “Hey, hey, home bakers, welcome back to the second round of competition. Today our pastry chefs are going to dazzle us with their signature desserts.” He snapped his fingers and gave the camera a cheesy wink. From my vantage point he looked like he had as much—or more—makeup on than me. I couldn’t imagine Stephanie’s attraction to him. I get the whole thing about being dazzled by meeting a real-life celebrity, but Elliot’s manicured and coiffed personal style couldn’t be more different than Stephanie’s grunge.

Elliot introduced the judges again. Then the camera panned on each of us holding our signature dessert. We had exactly thirty seconds to explain our concept.

“I opted for a panna cotta with a strawberry wine sauce and fresh mint,” I said as the camera zoomed in on my hands.

“What makes this a signature dish?” Elliot asked, thrusting a handheld mike in my face.

“The simplicity. It’s foolproof, and a really elegant and indulgent dessert that people can create at home. At Torte all of our pastries and baked goods are stripped down. We want the flavor to shine.”

Richard Lord, who stood two people down, made a snide comment under his breath. When Elliot made it to Richard, he made a big production about the Merry Windsor’s focus on serving Renaissance food. He offered a gingerbread cake as his signature dessert. I’d wager a guess that he couldn’t list a single ingredient in gingerbread. “Unlike my fellow Ashland contestant, my signature dessert reflects our Shakespearean town and roots. Guests at the Merry Windsor keep coming back just for our sweets.”

When the camera panned away from him, he craned his head forward and shot me a smug smile. I wasn’t going to let Richard get under my skin. Taste mattered, and I was confident that my fresh panna cotta would outperform Richard’s gingerbread.

Like yesterday, each judge was served a taste of our desserts on small plates. They jotted down notes and carefully assessed flavors. Sebastian was positioned at the opposite end of the set. I noticed that he glared at Madame Dubois as she sampled his dessert. What was his deal? Wouldn’t he want to try and butter her up? Or maybe he was worried that she knew he wasn’t really French. I wanted to try to get him alone and see if he’d fess up to faking his French accent.

The judges finished their deliberation. Elliot sprang in front of the camera and congratulated Nina on winning the round. I couldn’t believe her nondairy ice cream and fruit and nut compote had won. She squeezed my hand and practically skipped to the stage. Her eyes were wide with delight as the judges showered her with praise.

After Nina left the stage and joined us again, Elliot increased the tension and heightened the competition by announcing to the imaginary viewers at home that Richard Lord was on the brink of being voted out permanently. Two last-place votes in a row sent the contestant packing.

Philip directed the camera crew to switch from Richard’s face to his gingerbread and back again. “Cut. Cut.” He halted filming and addressed us. “Look, you guys, this is television. We’re filming a show here. I can’t have you all looking like you don’t care. I want to see some emotion in this next shot. Your faces should reflect the drama. Richard could be out, one of you could be next. Let me see that.”

Linda Belle batted her fake lashes at him. “You got it, sugar. We’ll play it up for you, right, ladies?” She nudged Nina and stared at me.

Maybe I was becoming jaded with age, but the idea of faking emotional distress over a baking show seemed over the top. Plus, if Richard got booted today, I’d be thrilled.

You signed up for this, Jules, I thought as I tried to tap into my internal bank of turmoil for Philip’s shot.

He seemed satisfied that we’d all put on our best vexed faces. “That’s it. Let’s roll, boys.” Filming continued, and Elliot ratcheted up the tension with long, dramatic pauses before announcing the results.

It didn’t come as a surprise when Elliot sighed and said, “Richard, bad news, my friend. Bad news.” He put his hand to his cheek and shook his head. Today he wore another skintight T-shirt that read
I BAKE HOT
. He jumped off the stage and sauntered over to Richard. As he rested his arm around Richard’s shoulder, his voice turned conciliatory. “Richard, you will not
take the cake
. I’m afraid it’s the chopping block for you, my friend.”

Richard got into character. He threw Elliot’s hand from his shoulder. “It’s a setup, I tell you. This competition is rigged.” He yanked off his apron, revealing a pastel golf shirt stretched over his bulging belly. “I’ll be back. You just wait. Next time I’m winning this.” He tossed his apron at Elliot and stalked off the set.

Elliot gazed into the camera. His bright blue eyes almost looked glossy. He wasn’t going to cry, was he?

Nina leaned over and whispered, “Oh, he’s good. He’s really good.”

Turning his head in the direction that Richard left, Elliot sighed and held his hands in a namaste pose. “That exit just goes to show how intense this competition is. Things are heating up. It’s going to get smokin’ hot in this kitchen over the next few weeks. Be sure to tune in next time when the contestants will be judged on pies.” He whipped a spatula from his apron pocket like a gunslinger. “This is your
Take the Cake
host, Elliot Cool, signing off and reminding you all that baking is a piece of cake. Stay sexy!”

Chapter Twenty-five

The camera light shone on all of us as Philip counted down with his fingers. “That’s a wrap,” he announced, and the camera went dark.

Off to the side Richard Lord broke into a throaty laugh. Philip raced over and clapped him on the back. “You were perfect. That was genius.”

Richard puffed his cheeks. “I think the acting bug has rubbed off on me.”

Philip turned to us. “That’s what I want to see, people. That’s television. Drama. Let’s have a round of applause for Richard.” He clapped his hands. The cast and crew followed suit.

Richard ate up the attention. He bowed. “It’s back to the busy world of business for me. Good luck to the rest of you.” He paused and stared at me. “I’ll be rooting for my girl Juliet. We have keep it here in the family in Ashland, so to speak.”

I felt like my jaw must have dropped to my chest. Richard stepped closer and lowered his voice. “You don’t have to look so shocked, Juliet.” He sounded sincere, and almost remorseful. Before I could sputter out a response, he left. Could Richard Lord actually be softening a little, or did he have some ulterior motive? I didn’t have time to figure it out at the moment, but watching him walk off the set made me feel a tad guilty. I hadn’t exactly made an effort to be kind to him. That’s something you’re going to have to work on, Jules, I thought to myself.

Philip passed around info sheets with the rules for our pies. From the crust to the filling everything was to be made by hand. That wasn’t a problem for me, but Linda looked distressed as she read through the list. I figured she had a vision of a pie adorned with candied pearls.

I stuffed the list into the back pocket of my jeans and removed my apron. It was almost lunchtime. I couldn’t believe the shoot had taken so long. It felt like we’d only been at the theater for an hour or so. Sebastian snuck past me and out the front door before I could grab him.

Nina looked like she was waiting around to speak with Philip, so I headed outside. Maybe I could catch up with Sebastian. I was dying to know why he was faking a French accent. I had a feeling it had to do with Marco’s murder, but I couldn’t figure out why.

I scanned the bricks across Pioneer Street and looked down the hill. Sebastian was nowhere in sight. He must have run off. Oh, well. I should probably just tell all of this to Thomas anyway, I thought.

The noon sun warmed the sidewalk and danced on the trees. Everything smelled fresh and clean. I inhaled, thankful to be outside.

“Jules!” someone called from behind me.

I stopped and turned around to see Nina running down the hill.

“Thank goodness I caught you.” She slowed her pace.

“What’s up?”

“I was hoping I could talk to you about Thomas.”

“Thomas?” I felt my body tense.

She wiped brown eyeliner from under her eyes. “This stuff is so gross.” She took two fingers and smudged it. “I need to take a shower.”

The makeup felt thick on my face. I imagined it seeping into my pores as we spoke. “I agree,” I said, patting my unfamiliar face. “You wanted to talk to me about Thomas?”

“You guys are old friends, right?”

“Yep.”

“He seems really nice.” She twisted her peasant skirt.