A Batter of Life and Death (5 page)

“Makeup.”

“I need makeup?”

“This is show biz. Everyone needs makeup. I’m gonna go find Philip. Catch ya later.”

He breezed behind the black curtains that hid the stage. The makeup artist took me to a chair set up in the corner of the room where she proceeded to cake heavy, thick makeup on my face. I’m not a makeup kind of girl. I appreciate dusting my cheeks and eyelids with powder, but that’s usually the extent of my morning routine. Working in the heat of the kitchen doesn’t lend itself to foundation.

The makeup artist lined my eyebrows and curled my lashes. “You have great skin,” she said as she ran a berry-colored tube of gloss over my lips. “Philip’s right. The camera is going to love you.” She leaned closer. “I hear he thinks you’re going to win this whole thing—have your own show. Now I see why he’s lobbying for that. Foodies usually have a face for radio, if you know what I mean.”

The gloss tasted slightly bitter. “I don’t think he’s lobbying for that. He just needed someone to take the place of one of the contestants who dropped out.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard,” she responded, holding up a hand mirror. “Take a peek. Let me know what you think.”

I almost didn’t recognize myself. She’d used blush to highlight my cheekbones and a mix of gold and green eye shadow that brought out the yellow and brown flecks in my eyes. It was way too much makeup for my taste, but I had to give her credit for making me look like I belonged on television. I wore my hair straight and parted straight down the middle.

She handed me a chocolate-brown apron with
Take the Cake
embroidered in white. “Here’s your costume. Better head up to the kitchen. It looks like Philip’s getting ready to get started.”

I laughed internally at her referring to the apron as my “costume.” Most of my time is spent with an apron on, which doesn’t give much opportunity to showcase my style. Not that it matters anyway; my wardrobe tends to be pretty simple. Like my cooking, I prefer my clothes to feel effortless, clean and elegant. My closet consists of tailored pants, well-cut skirts, and plenty of everyday T-shirts and casual dress shirts. With winter fast approaching, I was going to have to do some shopping for sweaters and warmer clothes. I’m sure Mom would gladly join me on a shopping excursion. She loves to shop as much as I love to bake. Passing a sales rack at a boutique without stopping would be torture for her.

I thanked the makeup artist and headed to meet my fellow contestants. Lining the black granite countertop were four incredible cakes. Linda presented a two-layer butter pecan cake with caramel ganache. Nina had baked a vegan carrot cake with a rum-raisin sauce served warm on the side, and Sebastian offered an almond cake with marzipan flowers hand created on the top. My Bavarian double chocolate cake and Marco’s mess of a cake rounded out the competition. Aside from Marco’s, everyone’s cakes looked show-ready. I was impressed.

Linda and Nina were summoned to the makeup chair, leaving me alone with Sebastian. Marco, Elliot, and Philip stood near the door. Actually, Philip stood near the door, holding Marco upright. Elliot’s voice could be heard above the chatter of the lighting and sound crew walking through their final preparations before we started filming.

My stomach felt fluttery. I’d never appeared on TV before, and I have a tendency to stiffen when I get nervous.

Sebastian examined each cake on display, muttering under his breath in French. I couldn’t understand a word he said. My nose picked up the scent of stale cigarettes on his clothing. In culinary school at least half of the chefs smoked. I have a sensitive nose, so I was probably biased, but I wouldn’t want cigarette smoke anywhere near my pastries.

Marco broke free from Philip’s grasp and stumbled toward the set with the now almost empty bottle of absinthe under his arm.

“Thief!” Sebastian shouted. “Zat is mine. It is very expensive—not to be wasted on a big, fat chef. I’ve been looking everywhere for it.”

I thought Marco might collapse at my feet as he attempted to fling the bottle at Sebastian’s head. Instead he fell forward, toward Sebastian’s cake. I gasped and held my breath. Philip caught him from behind at the last second before he nearly destroyed the delicate marzipan work.

“You’re done, Marco.” Philip handed the bottle to Sebastian.

Sebastian gave them both a look of disdain. “What am I to do with dis? Dis is not enough for my next creation.” He twisted off the cap and stuck his nose in the bottle. With an exaggerated look of disgust he walked over to the sink and dumped the remaining liquor down the drain. Then he turned and focused his dark eyes on Chef Marco. “Dis is sabotage. You will pay.”

Linda and Nina, their faces equally coated in a thick layer of pancake makeup, came over to see what the commotion was all about.

Marco lunged at Sebastian. Philip held him back. “I know things,” the drunk chef blurted out.

Philip cleared his throat and tightened his grasp around Marco. “Listen, everyone, we’re going to need to postpone production until the morning. Your cakes look stunning and I see that some of you are already in makeup so I’m going to switch a few things around a little. If you’re in makeup we’ll shoot a little vignette about your background tonight. Then let’s meet back here at eight
A.M.
sharp, and finish this, okay?”

Elliot, who’d returned from backstage, tore his lapel mic off and threw it on the counter. “This is so lame. A waste of time for one wasted chef. Philip, you better get this production together or I’m out.”

Philip watched him go, and then turned toward us. “Listen, I know this seems a bit disorganized, but I promise you, I know television. I’ve built Pastry Channel stars from nothing to worldwide fame. That’s my vision for the show.” He squeezed Marco again, whose eyes were barely slits. “I’m going to help sober my buddy up and we’ll be ready to roll tomorrow.”

Linda reached over and patted his arm. Her wrist full of bracelets clinked. “Sugar, don’t you give it a thought. We’ll sit tight tonight, right, y’all?”

Nina sighed. “I guess I can go back to the hotel and look over some recipes.”

“Disaster.” Sebastian twisted a leaf on one of his marzipan flowers and walked away.

Philip ushered Marco to a bench while the rest of us waited to film our one-on-one background spots. He began to snore. Drool pooled in the corners of his open mouth. I couldn’t wrap my head around the idea that he was a celebrity chef.

After I answered a few questions about my background and Torte, the production crew told me I was free to leave. I had to admit that I was surprised at how natural I felt once I started talking about baking. Philip stopped me on the way out.

“Jules, so sorry about this—this mess.” He paused and snuck a glance at Marco passed out on the bench. “We’ll right this ship tomorrow, don’t worry. Can you come by closer to seven? I have the new contracts for you to sign, and I want to make sure we have time to go over them in case you have any questions.”

I agreed, but as I walked down Pioneer Street toward my apartment, I wondered if I’d made a huge mistake involving myself in the show at all. I had to side with Sebastian.
Take the Cake
felt like a sinking ship.

Chapter Five

The next morning I rose to the sound of birds outside my window. Like me, they were awake before the sun. Pulling on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, I gave my face an extra scrub. I’d removed most of the makeup last night, but my pores felt clogged and dry. After downing a quick cup of coffee, I twisted my hair into a ponytail and headed outside. I took off at a steady clip toward the park. On the ship I used to walk laps on the upper deck before dawn. This morning I found myself missing that release.

A group of deer grazed on the lush fall grasses near the entrance to the park. They didn’t bother to look up from their breakfast as I passed by.

I remember whenever we’d hang out in the park when I was a kid, Dad would wander off to examine a fallen twig or sit and watch the ducks circle on the pond. He used to say, “One touch of nature makes all the world kin.” At the time I didn’t understand the meaning of Shakespeare’s words. As an adult they resonated deeply. The deer, the trees, the river, we were all connected. I paused for a moment to soak in the natural beauty around me. That was definitely something I didn’t experience on the ship.

The walking path led me past the children’s play structure, and deeper into the woods. I looped through the musty, tree-covered trail and around to the other side of the river. My body temperature rose as I walked briskly along the path. This is the way you need to start every morning, Jules, I told myself as I loosened the zipper on my jacket and turned toward Torte. The quick, refreshing walk had helped to bring me back to center.

Every morning, long before the rest of the sleepy village is awake, we follow a daily ritual at Torte: stir, mix, roll, knead—bake. Repeat. A little before six, Andy arrives and weighs the beans, adjusts his ratio as needed, and tastes shots. It’s these details and touches that matter and keep our customers coming back for more.

I prepped for the morning rush and made sure Andy, Stephanie, and Sterling had the pastry cases stocked and the coffee brewing before I left to meet Philip. He’d asked us to bring all the ingredients we used in our cakes. I packed a grocery sack with chocolate, baker’s flour, eggs, butter, and sugar.

As I pushed open the front door to the bakeshop, I ran straight into someone waiting outside and spilled the contents of my bag on the ground.

“Thomas! Sorry. I didn’t see you,” I said, bending down to survey the mess. Thomas is Ashland’s detective-in-training and also happens to be my high school boyfriend. He hasn’t changed much since our early years. With his boyish face and mischievous smile he could pass for someone much younger. Only his police uniform and sandy stubble gave away the fact that he wasn’t a teenager anymore.

Thomas propped the door open with his foot and knelt to help me gather my things. Fortunately everything was still intact.

“Are you taking Torte on the road, or something, Jules?” Thomas laughed and handed me a bar of dark chocolate.

“No. Believe it or not, I’m going to be on TV.”

“So I heard. Well, I always knew you were destined for fame and fortune.”

Some of the flour had spilled on the sidewalk. I refolded the bag and tucked it in with everything else. “Right. That’s me.” I brushed flour from my hands.

“Don’t sell yourself short.” He got to his feet and gave me a serious look. “But don’t forget about us little guys when Hollywood comes calling.”

“Trust me, Hollywood is not going to come calling, and even if they did I’m quite happy right here.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” Thomas grinned. His entire face lights up when he smiles. It’s one of the things I loved best about him when we dated back in high school. His attitude is contagious. I could feel my spirits lift.

“Are you covering for the Professor?” I asked, tapping the badge pinned to his chest.

“I’m it until he comes back. It’s what I do—keep the streets of Ashland safe for the likes of you, miss.” He saluted me.

“You know I hate to be called ‘miss,’ and I don’t think there’s much to keep safe around here right now.” I motioned to the empty sidewalks. “Everyone’s gone home.”

Thomas pointed his index finger and gave me a stern look. “Don’t you jinx this week for me. I was just about to go grab a coffee and read the morning paper.” He flashed his iPad. “I’ve been enjoying a little downtime after the crazy summer we had.”

“I’m with you. Quiet is good.” Thomas and I had reconnected when I discovered a body at Torte last summer. I shivered at the memory.

“Before you go, Jules, a bunch of us are going to get together this weekend—casual, have some beers—maybe grill, if this weather holds. I know everyone would love to see you.”

I’d been so consumed with Torte since being back that I hadn’t ventured much farther than the square. Maybe it was time to change that. Seeing old high school friends sounded like fun. “Sure,” I said to Thomas as I started toward Pioneer Street. “Just let me know when.”

“Great!” Thomas called after me. “It’s a date. I mean—no—it’s not. I’ll call you.”

I didn’t turn around to see him, but I could tell he was probably bright red. His light skin tends to flare at the slightest sign of stress. I chuckled to myself as I trekked up the hill. Making him squirm was too easy.

Once I reached the Black Swan Theater, I peered inside. I was surprised to see that it was plunged in darkness. I must have beaten Philip here, I thought as I fumbled on the wall near the door to try and find a light switch. I found one and flipped on the overhead lights.

Something felt off. I couldn’t exactly describe why, but the hairs on my arm stood and goose bumps started to form.

You’re probably cold, Jules. It’s a like a freezer in here, I told myself as I walked toward the kitchen.

I rubbed my forearm, trying to keep warm. Maybe there was a thermostat somewhere close by. If I could find it, I could crank the heat up.

First I wanted to drop off my baking supplies in the kitchen, then I’d go hunt for the thermostat. As I entered the fake kitchen, I did indeed drop my baking supplies—all over the floor. Flour and sugar exploded in the air. Eggs cracked on the floor. I was about to follow them. My body went limp at the sight of what looked to be Chef Marco facedown in a vat of frosting.

I blinked several times and tried to brush dust from my face
.
My eyes must be deceiving me, I thought as I inched closer. Was it some weird prop for the show?

Nope. That was Marco, in the flesh.

“Chef Marco, are you okay?” My voice sounded like it was coming from someone else’s body.

“Chef—are you okay?” I moved another inch closer.

There was no response. I had a sinking feeling I knew why, but the only way to confirm it was to touch him.

I grabbed a spatula from the counter and poked Chef Marco with it.

“Chef?” I tried one more time.

The portly chef didn’t budge. He’d been buried in buttercream.