A Batter of Life and Death (24 page)

Cracking two eggs into a mixing bowl, I thought back to Nina’s other
Take the Cake
entries. Had she used butter in all of them? I whisked in a splash of cream, and lit one of the gas burners on the stove. The flame burned low, as I drizzled olive oil in a skillet and set it on the flame. While I gave that a minute to heat up, I added a pinch of salt and pepper to the eggs.

Next I rinsed and chopped the mushrooms and onions and added them to the skillet. The skillet responded with a delightful popping sound. I sautéed them on medium heat until the onions went from being opaque to slightly golden and the mushrooms caramelized in their juices. I whisked in the eggs and scrambled it all together.

I plated the scramble and topped it off with a sprinkling of cheese. I poured myself another splash of wine and pulled out a bar stool. Not bad for a five-minute dinner.

The mushrooms were the perfect texture, slightly chewy with a big finish of flavor. I tucked into my meal, sipping my wine and considering the craziness surrounding all the contestants on
Take the Cake
.

I wondered what they were saying about me. At least I wasn’t pretending to be something I’m not.

My small plate hit the spot. I polished off the eggs and finished my glass of wine. Time to get baking, Jules.

If Nina was cheating by using butter, then I didn’t care about making a fruit-filled pie as well. Her excuse of having to compete against non-vegan ingredients didn’t hold up now that I knew she’d been using butter the entire time.

What did Nina gain by lying about being a vegan chef? Maybe the opportunity to be on the show. Philip had said from the start that he wanted interesting contestants. What if Chef Marco had found out that Nina was using butter, and threatened to tell Philip she wasn’t really a vegan?

Would that really be motive for murder? It sounded weak to me, but then again I’m not exactly the murdering kind, so how would I know?

I cubed butter for my pie crust. It’s much easier to incorporate flour into small cubes of butter when making a crust. The key to making a light and flaky crust is in using a full-fat butter. Some professional bakers use lard in their crusts to ensure an indulgent finished product. Personally, I prefer the taste of butter, but I do have a secret ingredient I always use in my pie crusts—vodka.

I learned the trick from the head pastry chef in culinary school. He taught us to swap vodka in most basic crust recipes for the water. The alcohol doesn’t allow gluten to form in the baking process and results in a tender, flaky crust. It works like a charm every time.

While I added flour and vodka to the butter, I couldn’t stop shaking my head. Nina of all people sneaking the luscious yellow milk-fat product into her sweets. Man, and the way she’d buttered Thomas up (I couldn’t resist) with her vegan treats, and lecturing Mom and me for using the foul stuff.

She and I were going to have a chat first thing in the morning. I could hardly wait.

I sprinkled the island with flour and began rolling out the crust. The doorbell jingled. Stephanie and Elliot came in. They both looked surprised to see me.

“What are you doing here?” Stephanie held her arm up to stop Elliot from entering any farther. “I thought everyone went home.”

“Nope.” I raised my hands, which were white with flour. “I’m working my magic. What are you two up to?”

Stephanie started to reply. “Elliot wanted to—”

Elliot swooped in front of her and cut her off. “I was hoping to sneak a little time in the kitchen. I’m having withdrawals being away from the kitchen for so long. I asked Steph if she wanted to learn some tips from a professional. She’s really eager to learn. I like her attitude. I may have to poach her from you, and bring her back to New York to train with me.”

Stephanie gave him an odd look.

Elliot moved toward the counter and rested his hands on his elbows for a better look at what I was doing. There was something about him that I didn’t trust. Maybe it was the way he consumed the entire counter space like he owned the place.

“Vodka?” He pointed at the bottle. “You don’t strike me as a drinker.”

“It’s for my pie.”

“Vodka pie. Vodka pie. Yes! You could be onto something. I can see it now—a cocktail-themed pie display. Supersexy. I might have to steal this idea, don’t you think, Steph?”

Stephanie hovered behind him. Her cheeks were bright with heat. They clashed with her purple hair.

“It’s not for the pie. It’s for the crust,” I said, as I pressed the crust into a pie tin.

Elliot straightened up and clapped his hands together. “Even better. Booze-infused crust and filling. You are a genius. No wonder Philip thinks you’re going to take home the cake this season.”

“He does?”

Elliot ignored me and turned to Stephanie. “Forget baking. Let’s go get a drink at the pub. I’ll sketch this out. Cocktail pies. I can serve them in mini tart forms, so people can have them like a shooter. I love it. This is going to go big. Real big. I think we’re sitting on the hottest new trend in food in years. I should call my agent. He can trademark this.”

Stephanie looked uncomfortable. “Well, it was kind of Jules’s idea.”

She got more than a few bonus points in my book for sticking up for me in front of her crush.

Elliot paused and flipped his head in my direction. “You want in on this?”

“I’m good. It’s all yours. Knock yourself out.” I took the pie crust and slid it into the oven.

Stephanie looked unsure. “It is a good idea…” She trailed off. Elliot was already halfway out the door.

“I promise. It’s fine. Really. We’re not going to serve alcohol-themed pie shots here.”

“But a trademark. If he gets that we couldn’t make them.”

“He’s not going to get a trademark on pies. I’m sure someone has already done it. Go. It’s fine.” I nodded.

She twirled a strand of her eggplant-colored hair and stood in the doorway.

I twisted the handle on the sink and waited for the water to warm. “Stephanie, is everything okay?”

She didn’t meet my eyes. “Yeah.”

“Are you sure?” She still wasn’t moving.

“Huh?” She looked up.

“You’re okay?”

“Yeah. Sorry. I better jet.” She raced after Elliot before I could probe more. I wondered if she was torn between Elliot and Sterling. I could certainly relate to that feeling. Maybe she wanted input on the two very different guys, but wasn’t sure how to broach the subject with me. I’d have to try to find some time to pull her aside tomorrow. Although I wasn’t sure what help I’d be. It was hardly like I had my own love life figured out.

The smell of the buttery pie crust baking in the oven reminded me I still needed to work on the caramel apple filling. I finished washing my hands and removed a bag of organic apples from the fridge.

Peeling apples is like meditation for me. Time drifted away as I swayed to the sounds of Latin salsa. It was a habit I was finding hard to break. When Carlos was at the helm of the ship’s kitchen, he always blared Latin rhythms. He said it made his cooking and the staff loose. I think it did. I’d been conscious of trying to listen to my own music while finding my own rhythm back at home, but when it came to baking I found myself clicking play on the old standby without even thinking.

I stopped in mid-peel, walked over to the CD player, and clicked off the Latin music. I searched through a stack of CDs, and found one of Mom’s Beatles collections. That should do the trick, I thought as I returned to the apples. “Yellow Submarine” is about as far from Latin salsa as I could get.

Peels piled up in the bowl. I cored the naked apples and sliced them thin. When working with fruits that brown easily, I always keep a fresh lemon within reach. After slicing each apple I squeezed lemon juice over the slices to keep them from browning, and the acidity of the lemon juice would give the filling just a little bite.

The timer on the oven rang for my crust. I pulled it out to cool on the counter before filling it. Lightly baking the crust before filling helps to make sure it doesn’t end up with a soggy center.

I stirred the apples with cinnamon, brown sugar, and a pinch of salt. I cut open a vanilla pod and scrapped the seeds into the mixture. Then I added an egg and flour and spread the mixture evenly into the crust. Usually with an apple pie I place a crust on the top as well. Mom likes to do lattice crusts, while I like a more rustic look—a simple sheeted crust brushed with an egg wash and dusted with sugar and nutmeg.

Since this was a baking competition I decided to forgo a double crust and do a caramel and whipped cream topping. However, I’d have to prepare both in the morning. I’d serve the caramel warm over the pie and top it with a touch of fresh vanilla whipped cream.

While my pie baked, I washed the dishes and wiped down the countertops. Both Nina and Sebastian had lied—majorly. If they could lie about being vegan and French, what else could they lie about? The question I kept coming back to was, why?

Would Nina have killed to keep her non-vegan practices a secret? Could Sebastian be making up the story about Marco? It sounded true, based on my short-lived experience with the world-famous chef, but Sebastian could be lying to save his own skin. If I was being honest with myself, I was no closer to figuring out who killed Marco, and no closer to deciding what I was going to do with my personal life.

If this was my attempt to distract myself from Carlos and my failing marriage, it wasn’t working. Maybe I needed a new distraction.

My pie finished baking. I took a whiff of the sweet, fall flavor as I removed it from the oven. The apples simmered in the cinnamon and had baked to a toasted golden color on the top. It looked and smelled divine. I could probably serve it plain, but a subtle caramel sauce and dollop of cream to cut the sweetness just might make me the winner tomorrow.

I locked Torte for the night and headed straight for my apartment. I wasn’t taking any chances that Sebastian might be lurking in the shadows.

The cool night breeze matched my pace, as I kept my head straight forward and my senses on high alert. There was no chance I was going to take a late-night stroll through Lithia Park or stop at the pub for a pint. I was on a mission to get home and get this day behind me.

I made it to my apartment without incident, except for the sweat beading on my forehead and the thumping in my chest. Taking the stairs three at a time, I was to the top in a flash, gasping for air. I fumbled for the key, unlocked the door, stepped inside and quickly locked it again.

Whew.

My head fell against the back of the door. I let out a long breath of air.

Breathe, Jules.

I stood up, and started to laugh at myself. Really, what did I think was going to happen on the short walk home? Some crazed killer was going to jump out from behind one of Ashland’s charming little shops and take me out?

My heart rate slowed as I set my keys and phone on the bookshelf and kicked off my shoes.

That’s when I looked at my feet.

An envelope with “Jules” scrawled in red pen had been shoved underneath my front door.

My stomach tightened as I bent over to pick it up. Something about the sloppy handwriting put me on edge.

I ripped open the envelope, and pulled out an index card. Written in the same red pen were these words: “One clue. Two clue. Three clues. You’re through.”

Chapter Thirty

I dropped the envelope and note on the floor and put my hand to my chest. My heart was racing again. What did that even mean? Was someone trying to be funny? Or was that a threat?

Maybe I shouldn’t have touched the envelope. Would the Professor or Thomas want it for prints?

My hand shook slightly as I picked it back up and rested it on the bookshelf near the front door. Was it too late to call? Could it wait until morning? No, Jules, the voice in my head yelled. Call Thomas.

I tried to hold the phone steady as I punched in Thomas’s number. He didn’t answer. I left him a scattered message, and told him not to come over. We could meet at Torte in the morning.

I left the note and collapsed on my bed. I was probably making too much of nothing. Maybe Lance was trying to play a silly joke on me for not including him in the investigation. Yeah, that was probably it.

I doubted my attempt at calming myself, but thinking that the note came from Lance helped me sleep. When I woke in the morning, I had myself pretty convinced that I was imagining the entire thing. Until I padded my way on the cold hardwood floors to the kitchen to make my morning java and saw the note.

“Forget it, Jules,” I said aloud as I dumped beans into the grinder. “There’s nothing you can do until you get to the shop.”

I went through the motions of my morning routine with an unsettled feeling nagging at me. Was I missing some critical clue? Did the note hold more meaning than I was giving it?

The smell of coffee brewing permeated the entire room. That should help raise your spirits and your energy, Jules, I told myself as I warmed a mug with hot water in the microwave.

With a hot mug of coffee in my hands, I moved onto the couch, where I sat to slowly savor my morning drink and try to center myself before going to Torte. My list of things to do was miles long—finish my pie, order and start to prep all the food for Lance’s end-of-the-season party, see if I could help mend things between Stephanie and Sterling, and get Torte ready for the day. The problem was I kept coming back to Marco’s murder. Clearing my mind wasn’t working. I couldn’t stop worrying about the note under my door and puzzling over Sebastian’s and Nina’s lies.

It was no use looping every detail through my head as I sat here on the couch. My coffee turned lukewarm in the bottom of my mug. I set it in the sink and grabbed a sweatshirt from my closet. Without looking I’d grabbed one of Carlos’s. I didn’t have to see it to know it was his. It smelled like him. I buried my head in it, took a whiff and placed it back on a hook. I didn’t need the distraction of thinking about Carlos today.

Outside, the breeze danced through treetops, making the leaves flit through the air as if they were greeting me for the morning. I kept my pace quick and my eyes on alert en route to Torte. While I was probably overreacting, the note had me spooked. Working on the ship for so many years provided me with an easy sense of my personal safety. It might have been an illusion, but I never even considered that harm could come to me on the ship.