A Batter of Life and Death (25 page)

When I’d walk the upper deck in the predawn the only thing I had to worry about was not waking one of the guests who’d indulged in too much merriment the night before and was sleeping it off on a lounge chair. Growing up in Ashland had been the same way. I’d hike through the upper trails of Lithia Park alone. My only concern was making sure I didn’t bump into a mama cougar trying to protect her cubs.

Since I’d returned home, my sense of personal safety had taken a beating. Maybe this was a part of the natural evolution of aging into my thirties. That idea that I was losing a slice of the easy sense of freedom that I’d enjoyed in my youth. Mom says that as we get older we develop a better understanding of everything we have to lose. That felt particularly true as I turned the key in the lock at Torte and shut and locked the door behind me.

I wasn’t taking any chances this morning.

The bakeshop was completely dark. I flipped on the lights, not realizing that I was holding my breath. After Sebastian trashed the place yesterday, I guess I was half expecting to find Torte in disarray. Fortunately as the lights hummed on and illuminated the cheery dining room, everything looked exactly as it should—the floors gleamed as the light reflected on them, each table sat cleaned and ready for customers, the pastry case and espresso machine looked as if they had been polished.

I let out a sigh. It’s a new day, Jules.

I got straight to work on the morning prep, warming the oven and pulling out batches of cookie dough and brownie batter that had been prepared yesterday. These would go in the oven as soon as it was at temperature. I washed my hands and removed sourdough starter from the fridge.

We’ve used the same sourdough starter for as long as I can remember. It’s one of the many reasons that customers keep coming back to Torte for bread. My dad used to tinker with the starter like a chemist. He taught me how to maintain the fermented yeast that we keep in a glass container in the refrigerator.

I sifted dry ingredients for the bread dough and mixed them together with starter, milk, and butter. Then I went to work kneading the dough. There’s nothing more therapeutic than kneading, in my humble opinion. I worked the sticky dough, letting the tension in my arms and spine soften with each pass.

Mom arrived as I was forming the dough into individual loaves and covering them with towels to rise.

“You’re here early, honey. Were you able to rest yesterday?” She unbuttoned her pale green raincoat and hung it on the hooks near the office.

“Sort of. Is it raining?” I pointed to the coat, trying to keep my tone light. I couldn’t tell her about the note.

“Not yet, but they say it’s rolling in later this morning. Maybe thunderstorms. We definitely need to make sure we have a soup on the menu today.” She wrapped a Torte apron around her slender waist. I hoped that I would inherit her genes when it came to aging. She looked like she could pass as my older sister. In part because her style was timeless. She wore a simple ivory shirt, with jeans and clogs. Her modern bob and subtle makeup contributed to her youthful appearance; the only giveaway that she was entering the second half of her life were the lines on her face and the wrinkles on her delicate hands.

I’m so lucky, I thought.

“What are you smiling about?” Mom asked.

“You.”

“Me?”

“I was just thinking how glad I am to be here with you.”

Mom came closer and squeezed me around the waist. She smelled like lavender soap. Wherever I traveled in the world, if I found fresh lavender I would always stop and pick a sprig. I remember Carlos teasing me about it, but when I told him it was how I got in touch with feeling like I was home, he just kissed my forehead and picked me a giant bundle.

“I think the same thing about you,” Mom said, releasing me. “I love having you home.” She stepped back and stared at me. “Is everything okay, though?”

“What? I can’t give you a compliment?”

“I love your compliments, but I get the sense something else is going on.” She reached on her tiptoes to the shelf behind us and pulled down a mixing bowl.

“How do you always know?” I threw my head back. “I can’t hide anything from you.”

“You’ll understand when you have a daughter someday.”

“Someday … I don’t know, Mom. I’m getting up there. Kids might not be in my future.”

Mom threatened me with the stainless steel dough hook in her hands. “Don’t you dare go there, young lady.”

I grinned. “I knew that would get ya.”

She twisted the hook into the mixer and secured the bowl on the base. “Are you going to fess up on what’s really bothering you? I have a guess. You haven’t given up on Marco’s murder, have you?”

I looked at my feet. “Not exactly.”

Mom sighed. “I told Doug the chance of you staying out of this investigation was about as likely as him suddenly becoming golfing buddies with Richard Lord.”

“Ha! I’d love to see that. I can totally picture the Professor in his tweed jacket golfing alongside Richard in one of his ridiculous golfing outfits. Maybe we should see if we can make that happen.”

“Jules, I know what you’re doing.” Mom’s tone turned into her serious “mother” voice. “You can’t breeze out of this discussion. It’s serious business. Murder. I’m worried about you. Doug is too.”

Now I really couldn’t tell her about the note. She’d probably call Thomas and have him lock me up in the one small holding cell downtown.

She measured sugar and butter and creamed them together on low. “Have you considered our conversation the other day?”

“You mean about Carlos?”

Her voice softened. “Honey, it’s not a bad thing. I get it. I really do. You’ve spent so much time contemplating your life over the last few months. That’s exhausting. I understand why the distraction of this murder is a good thing for you in some ways, I just wish you could find a different distraction.”

I checked my loaves of bread. They were rising nicely. “I have thought about it, Mom. Maybe too much. I guess I just didn’t think that I’d still be this confused. I really thought I could take a couple months and things would just sort themselves out. That I’d have a clear sense of whether I wanted to give it another go with Carlos, or whether I was done for good.”

Mom added buttermilk and eggs to the mixer and waited for me to continue.

“You know the whole idea of not communicating with him until next year sounded like a good thing, but I’m not sure it is. I think I’m making it worse. I’m making myself crazy because anytime I start to think about him I shove it inside and tell myself to stop. That can’t be healthy, can it?”

Mom pursed her lips. “I don’t know, honey. Does it feel healthy?”

I shook my head. “Nothing feels healthy. I mean I love being home. I really love it. More than I ever thought I would. I hadn’t realized how much I missed Ashland. I love working with you, the staff, thinking about expanding, but then always in the back of my head there’s Carlos.”

Mom nodded.

“I don’t know if I miss him, or just the
idea
of him. Does that even make sense?”

“It does. It really does.”

I removed the first batch of cookies from the oven and slid them onto cooling racks on the counter. The bakeshop quickly filled with the scent of chocolate, almond, and vanilla. I had to resist breaking one in half and chomping it. They needed to cool.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” Mom asked, sprinkling a handful of cranberries into her batter. “I wish I could fix this for you.”

I gave her a half smile. “I know. You can’t. This one’s on me.”

“Do you think maybe it’s time for you to go see Carlos? Face-to-face.”

I thought about that for a minute before responding. “I don’t know. That’s a good question. Let me think about it. I’ve told myself I wasn’t going to do anything about it until next year, so I guess I’ve had that date firm in my head.”

“You might consider being a bit gentler with yourself, Juliet.”

The timer rang for the brownies. I pulled them from the oven and set them next to the cooling cookies. “What? I’m not gentle?”

“Not with yourself, no.” Mom removed the bowl from the mixer and began scooping the batter into muffin tins. “You’re so much like your father. Stubborn, but only when it comes to
you.
Here’s a thought, what would you say to me or a friend in your situation?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what advice would you give me if I were you?”

“Mom, that’s silly. You’d never be in this position.”

“Uh—uh—uh. Hold it right there.” Mom pointed her index finger at me. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Stop being so hard on yourself. You’d never be like that with anyone else.”

“Okay. I’ll try.” I scooped cookie dough in perfect balls onto the sheets.

Mom sprinkled the top of her muffins with an oatmeal and nut crumble. “I’m going to hold you to it.”

I smiled. The cookies on the counter had cooled enough to taste. I broke one in half and offered part to Mom. “Breakfast?”

She took the cookie and bit in. “Oh, this is good, really good.”

I tasted my half. The cookie was crispy on the outside with a chewy center. The combination of dark chocolate and almond was a rich treat for my palate. I polished off my half and had to resist grabbing another. I probably needed something a bit more substantial to make it through another morning of filming.

Mom started a new batch of muffins while I finished baking the cookies. I had something else I wanted to ask her, but couldn’t quite find the courage to start the conversation.

Nina and Linda arrived with Andy and Stephanie, saving me from trying to figure out how to broach what I wanted to ask Mom. I had to find a way to talk to Nina alone. Now wasn’t the time. The bustling kitchen became more like a boxing ring as we all ducked and darted around each other trying to put the finishing touches on our pies.

The bell on the door jingled before Andy had even warmed up the espresso machine. “Good morning, darlings!” Lance greeted everyone with his usual theatrical flourish.

Andy explained it would be a few minutes before he could make an espresso.

“Not a problem. I’m here to check up on a little
note
I sent over.” Lance shot a dazzling grin my way.

Chapter Thirty-one

The marble rolling pin that I was using to roll out my crust slipped from my hand and landed on the island with a thud. Linda let out a little scream and Nina started.

“Juliet, are you okay?” Mom asked. “You look as white as that flour.”

Lance peered over the counter. “Your mother is right. You look like you’ve seen a ghost, darling.”

I shot him a look to keep quiet and brushed flour from my hands. “I’m fine,” I said to Mom.

Mom wrinkled her brow as she looked at me. “What’s this about a note, Lance?” she asked, leaving her muffin trays on the island and walking toward the front counter.

I followed after her, praying internally that Lance would keep his mouth shut. He must have sent the note, and was trying to call me out in front of Mom. What did “one clue, two clues, three clues” even mean? I couldn’t ask him now, but I did feel relieved to know that Lance had been playing a silly prank versus the alternative—the note being left by a killer.

Lance leaned over the counter and kissed Mom on both cheeks. “Helen, I swear you get lovelier and lovelier every day.”

Mom blushed slightly at his compliment and kissed him back. “Lance, you’re too much, but please keep it coming.”

The espresso machine hummed to life. Andy stepped to the side to make room for me at the counter. I drank in the smell of the beans he was grinding.

“Morning, Lance,” I said, giving him a pleading look.

“Juliet, a vision as lovely as your namesake. Although I must agree with your mother’s assessment. Your skin is looking a bit sallow this morning. Something’s not bothering you, is it, darling?”

“I’m fine. Just a bit tired,” I said, feeling my jaw clench.

“Lance, what note did you send?” Mom asked as she flipped through a stack of order sheets behind the counter.

“Oh, yes, the note! Didn’t you get it, Juliet?”

“Me? No. I don’t think so.”

Mom rested the stack of order forms on the counter. “I don’t see anything with your name on it. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t give it a thought.” Lance flicked his wrist. “That’s what I get for sending a stagehand on an errand.” His eyes pierced mine as he continued. “The
note
had all the final details for my soiree. I have complete trust in your culinary talent, but this party must be nothing short of flawless. You know us theater types.”

“Let me grab something to write with,” Mom said, turning to leave.

Lance stopped her. “No, no, Helen. I see that you’re bursting with activity this morning. I wouldn’t dream of interrupting. I’ll track down the stagehand and send him back down.”

“If you’re sure?” Mom looked at me. I shrugged.

“Absolutely.” Lance accepted a latte in a to-go cup from Andy and strolled to the front door. “Ta-ta.”

After he was out of earshot, Mom turned to me. “That was odd. Am I missing something?”

“You know Lance—he
is
odd.”

Mom agreed, and a customer walked in, saving me from having to elaborate. While Mom chatted with the customer, I snuck back to the kitchen.

I melted butter and brown sugar on the stove for my caramel sauce. It transformed into a rich, golden color as I whisked in a splash of vanilla and a pinch of salt. The sauce thickened on the heat. Mom returned to her muffins.

Linda examined the muffin batter. “That looks bowl-lickin’ good.”

Mom held out the mixing bowl. “Have a taste.”

“Divine. I need the recipe.” She licked the tip of her finger and scanned the kitchen. “Y’all want to hear a little gossip? Rumor has it that Sebastian is the number one suspect in Marco’s murder,” Linda said, sprinkling the top of her cream pie with brightly colored sprinkles. It reminded me of a kid’s ice-cream sundae. “I’m not surprised. You know, the French are so nasty.”

Mom handed Stephanie a list of items to start on for the morning rush. She smiled at Linda, but kept her tone even. “I’m not sure. I haven’t heard anything.”