A Batter of Life and Death (9 page)

Chapter Eleven

Lunchtime brought a packed house to Torte. Not only because locals were eager to reclaim their town, but because word had spread about Marco’s murder. The pork and apple sandwiches and amaretto cookies were sold out before we were halfway through the rush. Andy’s pumpkin cream lattes were a huge hit. The line at the espresso bar held steady despite the fact that he was cranking out coffees at record pace.

The four of us worked in rhythm. Stephanie started new batches of cookies and muffins—anything we could turn around fast. Sterling rang up customers and dished out pastries. I delivered lunch orders to each table, and kept my comments on Chef Marco’s death brief.

After about an hour the crowd began to thin. Lance strolled in with two young starlets from the company on either arm. He carried himself like someone familiar with the stage, with an upright stance and touch of drama in his deliberate walk. Plus he was the only person in the room wearing a suit and ascot.

He escorted his leading ladies to a table and caught my attention. I wiped my hands on my apron and carried a tray of assorted pastries, cookies, and individual cakes to the front.

“Ah, the lovely Juliet. As lovely as your dainty sweets. What do you have there?” Lance stroked his goatee.

I held out the tray. “What’s your pleasure?”

“Oooh, they all look delish, but I’m not here for pastry. We need to have a tête-à-tête about my soiree.”

Lance hosts a bash at his house at the end of every season. He invites the entire company (at least those still in town) over for a celebratory dinner served al fresco in his large backyard garden. In the past, Mom has provided all the desserts for the party, but this year Lance hired us to cater the entire event. It will be Torte’s first official catering client. If all goes well hopefully we can expand that side of the business and start doing more private events.

I handed the tray to Sterling.

“Shall we step outside?” Lance asked.

Doing a quick check of the dining room, I decided I could sneak out for a few minutes. The line at the coffee bar had vanished and there were only three tables in use. Sterling and Andy could handle those.

“For sure.”

Lance ordered coffee and pastries for his actresses and held the door open for me.

The mid-afternoon fall sun filtered through the trees. A group of actors gathered near the fountains in the town plaza acting out an impromptu scene. Lance gave them a nod of approval.

“End of the season. We’ve only got two shows left, and then it’s a wrap. They don’t know what to do with all the extra time they have on their hands.”

“No more matinees?”

“Nope, those are done. We have
Othello
tonight and one final performance of
The Shrew
tomorrow. Then we tear it down and go dark.” His eyes misted. “I always get a touch of nostalgia at the end of the season.” He fiddled with his ascot and drew in a breath. “But that’s not your worry. I hear we have another murder.”

I waited for him to say more. Lance and I had become friends—well, at least acquaintances—over the last few months. I liked him, but I was never quite sure of his motives. That’s probably due in part to his constant effort to persuade me to audition for the company.

“Philip came and told me what happened right away.” He grimaced. “Buried in buttercream. That’s a stageworthy way to go if I’ve ever heard of one.”

“Lance, a man is dead.”

“Juliet, I kid. But even you must admit it’s a
theatrical
death to say the least.” He tugged on his ascot.

I scanned the plaza. Lance was completely overdressed in his suit. Everyone around us wore jeans, but Lance didn’t look out of place. “Are you hinting at something?” I leaned closer.

“It sounds staged to me.”

“And?”

He shook his head. “Darling, for someone so intelligent, you really can be thick.”

“I get what you’re saying. I just don’t understand the significance, or why you’re talking to me about this. If you have a theory on who killed Marco you should tell Thomas.”

“No theory, darling. An observation perhaps.”

“Lance, what are you trying to say?”

“I know the theater and I think whoever killed Marco has a penchant for dramatic flair.”

“Who?”

Lance looked incredulous. “How would I know?”

“Isn’t Philip your friend?”

“What does Philip have to do with this?”

“Lance.” I couldn’t keep the frustration out of my voice. “You’re the one hinting that someone with a theatrical connection killed Marco. Philip is the most obvious suspect in my eyes. He has a background in the theater, is consumed with making
Take the Cake
a top-performing show, and he was the last one at the Black Swan last night. He had motive—not wanting the drunk chef to tank his show—and opportunity.”

“Ha!” He held his index finger in the air. “I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“You are sleuthing.”

My cheeks felt warm.

“I see you blushing, darling. Don’t try to hide it. I knew I could ferret it out of you.” He brushed his hands together. “Success. We should really team up, you know.”

“Lance, what are you talking about?” I lowered my voice as an elderly couple with a Torte box passed by us. “I’m not sleuthing.”

He moved closer to me and put his arm around my shoulder. He squeezed it tight and then pointed to the group of actors in the plaza. “I know acting. You cannot fool me. You’re going to help Thomas with this case and I want in.”

I pulled away. “Want in? What does that even mean?”

“It means the show is closing, and let’s face it, things are going to get slow in our sleepy little town. I don’t start my school tour program for another couple weeks. Let’s have a little fun and team up together. We can be like a modern-day Nancy Drew—and that other boy detective. What’s his name?”

“You’re asking me? I don’t know.”

Lance frowned and furrowed his brow. “I watched what you did this summer. People trust you. I think it’s those pale blue eyes and that to-die-for naturally blond hair. You’re like our own Sherlock, only much, much more lovely. What do you say?”

“Seriously, I’m not investigating anything. In fact it’s quite the opposite. Thomas made it crystal-clear that I’m not allowed anywhere near Marco’s murder.”

“Tsk-Tsk.” Lance waved his finger from side to side. “We all know he didn’t mean it. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. He most certainly wants you by his side.”

“Lance. Stop.” I hit him in the shoulder.

“You’ll have to do better than that.” He narrowed his ebony eyes. “If Thomas told you to stay out of this murder business I have a feeling that’s only going to make you more determined,
Juliet.
”

I let my mouth hang open.

He tapped it shut. “That’s not a good look on you. Remember, cheekbones. Don’t pretend to be shocked. You and I have a lot more in common than you think.”

Sterling tapped on the window. “I have to get back to work, Lance. I promise. I’m not having anything to do with Marco’s murder.”

“So I guess that means you’re not interested in what I know.”

I paused. “What do you know?”’

“Really, you are so transparent, darling.” He pointed to Sterling. “It looks like you’re needed inside. You better run along. Come by the theater and we’ll chat about my party. Ta-ta.” He blew air kisses on both my cheeks and waltzed to the plaza.

I turned to go back inside. Was Lance right? Was I that obvious? As much as I hated to admit it, there was something about solving a murder that drew me in. Maybe it was also an easy escape from worrying about my real-life problems, like Carlos halfway across the world. More than anything, I couldn’t stop thinking about what Lance might know. He might be right—I was already deep in the investigation, and I didn’t want out.

Chapter Twelve

Sterling handed me the phone as I stepped inside. “It’s that producer.”

“Jules, glad to get you live.
Take the Cake
is shooting tomorrow. I don’t care what the police say. I want you at the theater. Nine
A.M.
—sharp! Be ready for hair and makeup.”

Before I could respond, he hung up.

I stood staring at the phone.

“Everything cool?” Sterling asked. He pulled on a white hoodie with bright geometric shapes and a colorful skull. When I’d met him this summer his wardrobe consisted of one black hoodie. I was glad he was at least adding some color to his rotation of hoodies.

“It’s cool. I guess as they say, ‘the show must go on.’”

“My shift is done. I was gonna go skate, but I can stay if you need me.” His skateboard was tucked under his arm, like an extra appendage.

“No. I’ll be fine. You go. See you tomorrow.”

Sterling pulled his hood over his head. He glanced to the back where Stephanie was washing cookie sheets. I thought he might say something, but he didn’t. He spun the wheels on his board and walked away.

Stephanie and Andy helped clean up. They both had evening classes so I’d be on my own for the last hour or two. We usually close late in the afternoon, but during the slow months it just depends on whether or not we have any customers. I don’t mind customers hanging out at one of the bistro tables if I’m working on the next day’s prep, even if it’s technically after “closing.”

I went to work on another Bavarian chocolate cake. Was Sebastian right? Had Marco intentionally destroyed our cakes? Maybe. Although he was so drunk, it was also likely that he had a late-night craving and decided to swipe whatever was nearby.

The doorbell jingled. I thought it was a customer, but instead it was Nina. She carted in mixing bowls, pastry knives, and two large hemp bags of her vegan ingredients.

“Where do you want me?” she asked, resting the bags by the espresso machine.

“We’re going to have to share the island.”

“What? I thought I was getting Marco’s station. Where’s his stuff?”

I nodded to the office since my hands were coated in chocolate. I was going to try a new technique for drizzling a melted ganache on the top. To practice, I poured it over waxed paper. “The police asked us to move his things. Come on back. I’d help, but as you can see I’m sort of a mess.”

Nina brought her bags to the island and began unloading her baking supplies. She removed waxed paper from a glass bowl and began stirring a creamy substance that looked like butter.

“I thought you didn’t use butter?”

“This isn’t butter. It’s futter.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Futter. It’s a vegan butter substitute.”

I appreciated that she was passionate about her lifestyle, but really, futter? It took everything in me not to laugh.

“You know, you should really explore incorporating more vegan options into your menu. Veganism is growing rapidly. I tried to tell Richard Lord the same thing but he laughed at me.”

I swallowed hard. I was just as bad as Richard Lord. Nina was right. Veganism had been gaining popularity, especially among celebrities. In an alternative town like Ashland, I’m sure many of our clients would appreciate having more vegan items on the menu. I decided it was time for an attitude shift. Instead of being a food snob, which I’m usually not, I could take this opportunity to learn some new recipes and techniques from Nina.

“So tell me how it works? I know vegans don’t eat meat, but you also don’t eat any animal byproducts, is that right?”

She lined up a row of organic spices. “That’s right. We don’t eat eggs, dairy, or any other products derived from animals. The diet has tremendous health benefits, but as I was saying earlier it’s also about ethics. Do you know how they treat animals in the big commercial farms?” She pointed to the eggshells in front of me. “You wouldn’t believe the life those poor baby chicks had to lead.”

“Hold up.” Chocolate dripped from my fingers and splattered onto the waxed paper. “We source all of our products locally. All of our eggs come from free-range chickens from a nearby farm.”

“That’s what they all say.”

I thought about responding with a snarky comment, but decided that if Nina and I were going to work in the same space together I should probably let it be.

“You want to try some futter? You’ll never know the difference.” She offered me a spoonful.

“Sure.” I took the spoon and tasted the creamy mixture. “Nice—a light and airy texture. Am I tasting coconut?”

She took the spoon back. “Yeah. I use a mixture of coconut and olive oils. I can teach you how to make it.”

“That would be great.” I smiled. Baking without butter was like painting without a canvas in my opinion, but her faux butter had a smooth texture and interesting flavor. I didn’t think it compared to the gorgeous, rich original, but I was definitely up for experimenting with it.

“Thanks for letting me hang here.” She whipped the futter. “I don’t know how you can put up with Richard Lord. He’s such a jerk, and his kitchen is stocked with nothing but processed food.”

“He’s something, that’s for sure. But Ashland is a small town so Mom and I do our best to put our differences with Richard aside.”

“I heard you used to be an actress. They’re saying you’re going to get your own show. You must be good.”

“No. No. I did a few plays when I was younger, that’s all. Trust me, I’ve never been an actress.” I poured the last of the melted chocolate onto the waxed paper.

“If you can put on a nice face to Richard Lord then you’re an actress in my book.” We made eye contact across the island. She grimaced. “Hey, what do you know about Sebastian?”

“Nothing. Why?” I walked to the sink to wash the chocolate off my hands.

“I’m not sure. I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something weird about him.”

“You mean other than being a snotty French chef?”

She shook a combination of spices and sugar into her futter. “My bakery is in L.A. I’m used to dealing with high-end clientele every once in a while. It’s not that.” She paused. “I don’t know. It’s probably nothing.”

I dried my hands on a towel and reached up to the open shelves along the wall for a cake stand. “Did he do something?”