A Batter of Life and Death (23 page)

Thomas waited with iPad ready to type. Apparently none of this was worthy of including in notes yet.

Sebastian reached for his pack of cigarettes, patted it but didn’t pull it out. “Things didn’t exactly go as I planned. New York is a hard city. Really hard when you’re an eighteen-year-old kid.”

I knew a little something about that too. Although unlike Sebastian I was fortunate enough to attend one of the top culinary schools during my stint in the city.

“I couldn’t get anyone to give me a shot. I tried every single high-end restaurant and dive bar in town. No one would hire me. I worked odd jobs for a while and lived in this nasty studio apartment with two other guys. It was terrible. I almost moved home to Ohio.”

Thomas gave me a look I couldn’t quite decipher.

“Right when I was about to call it quits, I got a break. One of my buddies was working as a dishwasher at a swanky pastry shop in midtown. The restaurant kept losing wait staff and the kitchen help due to a horrid head pastry chef. He’d just fired the latest busboy. I didn’t care. It was my shot. I showed up for my first shift the next day, like a kid at Christmas. I was riding high with my first real job. I knew that if I busted my ass bussing tables and washing dishes I could work my way up and get some real training as a prep cook.”

Sebastian pulled the pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Hang on a sec. I need a smoke,” he said as he lit a cigarette. “Turns out my buddy was right, the head chef was a nightmare to work for. He belittled the staff, and was always drunk in the kitchen. He’d break things, ruin a dessert and then blame everyone else. We all tried to avoid him. The sous-chefs did all the work anyway, and they were pretty decent to me. I worked there for three years and yet the head chef never even knew my name.”

He inhaled another hit of nicotine. “I finally got another break when one of the prep cooks left in the middle of a shift. The sous-chef knew I was eager and had me fill in. I took abuse from the head chef. I can still remember his slurred voice in my ear and the smell of alcohol on his breath.”

“Marco?” I asked. I couldn’t help myself.

Thomas raised his eyebrow.

Sebastian nodded. “Yep, the world-famous Marco. The only reason he was famous was because he had a staff that did everything for him. The man didn’t lift a finger. I’m not even sure he knew how to bake. He spent all his time with a bottle under his arm, making life miserable for the rest of us.”

I kept quiet after Thomas’s warning, but Sebastian’s confession was making him sound guiltier to me.

“But I didn’t care, because I knew I was training at the best pastry shop in town. Having that on my résumé was going to open doors. The sous-chef really took me under his wing.” He waved smoke from his face. “One night I was working late and had a pan of custard cooling. Marco stumbled in drunk and spilled the custard all over the floor. He slipped on it, and then claimed that I’d pushed him. Fired me on the spot. Not another word, then called the cops. Said I had assaulted him. Threw the custard at him. I didn’t.”

Thomas stopped him. “I’m not entirely sure that this story is helping your case. Do you want to speed it up a bit?”

Sebastian smashed his cigarette. The ground near his feet was littered with cigarette butts. “I’m getting to that. Marco firing me ended up being the best thing that ever happened to me. That night I hit the bar. I used to pretend that I had a French accent to impress women, and there was a woman at the bar who was starting a new bistro. What started as my attempt to try and hit on her with a fake French accent ended up landing me a job as her head pastry chef. She thought I was really French, and I told her I’d worked for Marco for years. That was enough. I’ve been a French pastry chef ever since.”

“I’m still not sure how this clears you as a suspect,” Thomas said.

“Don’t you see, I owe my career to Marco? If he hadn’t fired me that night, I’d probably still be working for Marco and be bitter, but in a weird twist of fate he helped me get my first break. I worked as the head chef of Le Dish for five years. Last year my grandmother died and left me her diner in Portland. No one knows me in the city. I’ve played the part of a French chef for so long, I guess I didn’t even think about just being me when I moved.”

“This doesn’t explain your prints at Torte.” Thomas pointed to the iPad.

“Yeah, about that.” Sebastian looked at me. “Sorry. I’ll pay for everything.”

“So you did break in?” My voice sounded shrill.

Sebastian hung his head a little. “I did.”

Chapter Twenty-eight

“If you didn’t kill Marco then why break into Torte?”

Thomas shot me another warning look. “Yes, you’re going to need to explain yourself.”

“It was for a recipe.”

“A recipe?” Thomas and I spoke at the same time.

“Back when I worked at Marco’s, the sous-chef and I came up with a masterful fruit torte. It took us weeks to perfect and then the recipe disappeared. I tried to re-create it at Le Dish, but never quite got it right. I’m sure Marco stole it years ago. I’m just not sure why. He never put it on the menu or anything. When I saw that old black binder he was carrying around, I wanted to see if my recipe was still there.”

“So you broke into Torte?” Thomas looked doubtful. “Why wouldn’t you have asked to see his recipe book, and why break all the vases?”

“I figured if I asked to take a look at the recipe book then this entire story would come out and it wouldn’t look good for me. Chef Marco didn’t recognize me, so no one would ever associate the two of us together.” He patted his cigarette pack again. The guy had a serious addiction. He must have smoked five cigarettes in the ten or fifteen minutes we’d been talking. “Sorry about the vases. Like I said, I’ll pay you for any damage. I’m pretty good with a lock, but after I broke in I realized that if I went through Marco’s things, someone would think it had to do with his murder. I broke the vases to make it look like someone had vandalized the shop.”

Thomas typed something on the iPad. “I’m not sure what to think about this. I’m going to need to talk to the Professor. In the meantime, Jules, do you want to press charges?”

Sebastian wouldn’t meet my eye. “I am really sorry. That’s why I broke the vases. I figured they’d be the easiest to clean up and replace. I didn’t touch anything else in the shop, I swear.”

I wasn’t sure I believed him. The man had to be a good actor if he’d spent the last decade pretending to be French, but I also wasn’t sure I wanted to go through the process of filing a complaint against him. “No,” I said after a moment of deliberation. “But you are going to need to buy us new vases. I want them at the bakeshop before we open to customers tomorrow morning.”

Sebastian let out a breath. “Thanks, I appreciate it. I’ll get you new vases. No problem.”

“Not so fast there.” Thomas held up his index finger. “Jules may be letting you off easy, but I’m not done with you yet. You are not to leave town until the Professor or I say you’re free to go. Understood?”

“Where am I going to go?”

“Regardless. I don’t want you to put a foot outside of Ashland.”

“I won’t.” Sebastian pointed to the back door of the Merry Windsor. “Can I get back to work?”

Thomas nodded. “And I need you to bring anything of Marco’s to the station immediately.”

“Okay.” Sebastian flipped the pack of cigarettes. He gave me a nervous look. “You’re not going to say anything about the French thing, are you?”

“No.” I wanted to ask him a thousand more questions, but I knew Thomas wouldn’t approve.

Sebastian slipped back inside. Thomas extended his arm. “How about if I walk you to Torte?”

I accepted his hand. His touch sent a tingling sensation up my entire arm. Maybe a decade had passed, but the chemistry between us still felt palpable and familiar. And yet entirely different than my chemistry with Carlos.

Carlos and I ran hot. From the first time we met on the ship, the heat between us was impossible to deny.

I dropped Thomas’s hand. His posture stiffened as we walked down the alley.

“Do you believe him?” I asked.

Thomas didn’t answer right away. I wondered if I’d offended him by pulling away. Had he felt the connection between us too?

The only thing I could compare the two men to was pastry. Thomas was like a soft oatmeal cookie, served warm from the oven with a chewy center. Carlos was like cherries jubilee, flaming hot on the outside. Once the flame burned out, though, what was left?

Thomas was speaking. I was only half listening. “Sorry, what did you say?” I asked.

“You always were a dreamer, Jules.” His voice sounded husky.

He must have been reminiscing too. He held my gaze for a moment, his blue eyes searching for a memory, or maybe a sign that I still felt something.

I broke the tension with a flippant response. “Not sure any of that dreaming has paid off. Look at me now, I’m right back where I started—literally.” I pointed to the wooden sign that hung above Torte.

“Maybe you should think about it more like you’re right back where you belong.” Thomas leaned close to me. I could smell a hint of lingering pollen mixed with aftershave. Like his touch, the smell was familiar. Although fortunately he didn’t smell like he bathed in aftershave the way he used to in high school.

I wondered for a moment if he was going to kiss me. My back rested on the window, he leaned forward and propped one arm on the window too. Our noses were an inch apart. I could feel my breath quicken. Did I want this?

At that moment someone rapped on the window from inside. Both of us jumped. Thomas backed away. I turned to see Nina waving from inside.

Thomas cleared his throat. “You better get in there. Looks like you might be needed.”

“I think you’re the one she’s looking for.” Nina was still waving with one hand and holding a plate of treats with the other.

“Come in!” she called.

Thomas muttered something under his breath I couldn’t make out. Nina danced toward the door and flung it open.

“I was just hoping that I would see you,” she said to Thomas, ignoring me. “I made you another vegan delight.” She pushed the plate in front him. “Cookies. Wait until you taste these. You’ll never go back to butter.”

She bounced back and forth on her open-toed sandals while waiting for Thomas’s reaction as he took a bite. “So what do you think?”

Thomas chewed the cookie. “It’s good,” he said with his mouth full.

“Good. Come on.” Nina batted her hand. “They’re better than good. Here, try another one.” She shoved the plate at Thomas.

I wanted to ask him more about Sebastian, but I could tell Nina had no intention of sharing him, so I left them and the vegan cookies in favor of an empty kitchen.

Nina’s workstation was a disaster. I pushed her stuff to one corner of the island, washed my hands, and tugged on a clean apron. Pies were one of my specialties. They’re such a simple yet elegant dessert option.

The wine Mom brought from her trip sat within arm’s reach. I grabbed the bottle and poured myself a glass. The question was, what kind of pie? I had a feeling that Linda’s pie entry would be something cream based, Nina’s was most likely to be an apple or some kind of fruit. I’d put money on Sebastian bringing in a rustic tart, to keep up with his fake French act.

What could I make that would set my pie apart from the rest of the competition? I took a sip of wine and flipped through our recipe book. The farther I went in the competition, the more I wanted to win.

Nina scurried into the kitchen with a half-empty plate of cookies. “I’ll get all this tomorrow.” She set the plate on the island and noted her mess. “Thomas and I are going to go grab a drink. Don’t work too late.” She winked.

I swirled the wine in my glass and watched them stroll across the plaza. The smooth wine slid down my throat and warmed my stomach. In the excitement of tagging along with Thomas to interview Sebastian I hadn’t eaten anything—again. This seemed to be a pattern. One I needed to fix. Mom had been on me since I’d come home about being too thin. I eat. That isn’t the problem. It’s just that sometimes I forget that I need to eat more than one meal a day, or more than cookies.

Andy and Sterling had cleared and cleaned the pastry cases. We donate day-old bread and pastries to the shelter in town, so there was nothing left for me. Maybe I’d get lucky and score a sandwich in the fridge. Sometimes we wrap them overnight so they don’t go bad before we deliver them to the shelter.

I walked into the fridge. It was jam-packed with extra supplies for Nina and Linda. I found eggs, pineapple, a box of organic apples and pears from an orchard nearby, and an assortment of meats and cheeses for tomorrow’s sandwiches. But alas no leftovers. I grabbed some farmer’s cheese, a couple eggs, mushrooms and onions. I could make myself a quick egg-scramble.

As I started to close the door to the fridge, I noticed Nina’s pie on the second shelf. I could tell it was hers because, like her workstation, a two-foot section of the shelf was littered with her baking supplies. She must have seen Thomas and me outside and dropped whatever she was working on.

I would have just left everything as it was, except that my eye caught a glint of a silver wrapper in Nina’s mixing bowl. I picked up the bowl. Sure enough, it contained not one, but four silver wrappers. Silver
butter
wrappers.

The vegan chef was baking with butter.

Chapter Twenty-nine

“That cheater!” I said out loud to no one. Nina was baking with butter. Butter! She’d been giving me nothing but grief for the last few days, making me feel like I was serving my customers poison, lecturing me on the fair and equal treatment of animals, only to be secretly using butter herself.

This was rich. I couldn’t wait to tell Thomas.

I hurried out of the fridge and rested my ingredients on the counter. What was the deal with these contestants? Was everyone putting on an act? Sebastian pretending to be French, Linda and Philip having an affair, and now Nina using butter in her clean-living “vegan” pastries.