Ellen McKenzie 04-Murder Half-Baked (10 page)

I
was one of the few in town who didn’t attend Doctor Sadler’s funeral. It wasn’t that I forgot. That wasn’t possible with Dan mumbling about no fingerprints on the angel arm when there should have been and Aunt Mary making pointed comments about flowers. It was simply that I hadn’t known the man; finding him dead didn’t change that and I had way too many things to do. I’d spent the last couple of days looking for a suitable
replacement
for Grace House, had found a couple, and had an appointment to show them to Anne. I also had several escrows that needed attention if they were to close on time, a couple of other sellers who kept wanting to know why their overpriced houses hadn’t sold, Christmas presents to buy and wrap and, of course, a wedding to finish planning.

I still hadn’t booked a caterer. It seemed that Christmas and New Year’s were their busy seasons, especially New Year’s Eve. One harassed sounding woman actually laughed at me. “Why didn’t you start planning this a year ago
?
” she’d asked before hanging up on me.
Because I didn’t know I was getting married a year ago
I wanted to yell back, but it was too late, and it didn’t matter anyway. I wouldn’t have hired her if she had won the year’s best chef award on one of those reality shows. But I was beginning to get nervous. I had to have something besides wine at the reception. Wine and wedding cake. Lots of each. Most of Santa Louisa would be greeting the New Year with first class hangovers unless I did better than that. So, with the forlorn hope that Sal or Rose might know someone, I decided to stop by the bakery on the chance that one of them had not gone to the funeral. I hoped Rose was the one who had stayed behind. In which case, I planned to bring the conversation around to the wedding cake as well. Tactfully
and
carefully, but firmly.

No one was behind the counter. I took a deep breath and let myself bask in the heady aroma of fresh baked bread and warm pastries before I looked around. The glass case was filled with trays of Danish
—
cherry, blueberry, cheese
—
and there were turnovers on the next shelf down, warm apple slices peeking out of the corners.
Placed
beside them were small tarts filled with lemon or chocolate, topped with delicate little swirls of whipped cream. I
walked closer
. Those looked different. The crust was thin and flaky looking. The lemon looked smooth and creamy, the chocolate light enough to take off and fly. I
peered
back at the turnovers. Their crust
was
thick, heavy. The Danish looked
heavy
. But the tarts
...

Layer cakes were on the top shelf, most of them the same kind I had seen a few days ago,
suspiciously similar to those
that filled the shelves at Marketland. But there was one
… C
ould it be? The little sign in front of it said it was. Lemon Semolina Cake. There it sat, fat and round, drenched in the lemon sugar sauce traditionally poured over the hot cake. I didn’t know Sal had ever made them. The only one I had ever tasted came from an Italian bakery and deli in Newport Beach. It was expensive; everything in Newport Beach was expensive, but the pastries and breads that came out of that shop were worth the price. This cake looked just as moist, as light, as wonderful as the Newport one. I could feel my mouth water. And pucker
,
just thinking about that lemon tang.

I wasn’t going home without that cake. But where was everyone? Someone had to be here. The front door was unlocked and the little bell had rung. I walked over to the low part of the counter where the cash register was and leaned over.

“Is anyone here?”

No answer. Just a blackboard hung on the back wall, silently advertising the specials of the day. Orange cranberry muffins, sourdough bread, and Boston cream pie. No mention of the Lemon Semolina Cake.

“Oh.” Gina appeared from the back room. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear the bell.” She was wrapped in a smudged white apron that somehow managed to
exaggerate the curves of
her more than shapely figure. Her mane of dark hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail, but tendrils had escaped to lightly curl around her face. She wore no makeup, so perhaps it was the heat from the bakery ovens that gave her skin that fine sheen and her cheeks that rose
-
colored glow.

“No problem. I was looking at the things in the case. That Lemon Semolina Cake is mine.”

Gina actually smiled. “I’ll get it out for you now. You know, not too many people know what it is.”

“We had an Italian bakery and deli close to where I lived in Newport Beach. I went there a lot. They used to make them.” I grinned a little sheepishly.
“I became addicted.”

“It’s easy to do.
T
he Greeks also make this cake. A slightly different version, but great.” A buzzer sounded and Gina jumped. “I’ll get your cake in a minute. I have to get
… D
o you mind
?
I’m here alone and I have to get the bread
… C
ome on in back.”

I walked around the counter and followed her into the back room, the heart of the bakery. It wasn’t very large. In fact, it looked downright cramped. There was a double oven against the back wall. Next to it was a stainless steel rolling rack that contained trays, small loaves of what
smell
ed
like cinnamon bread on some of them. There were Boston cream pies on another tray, but they looked flat and the chocolate icing waxy. Another wall had a stainless steel sink and drain board piled high with metal bowls. A dishwasher sat next to the drain board. There was a rack above it
that
held an assortment of wooden rolling pins. They ranged from tiny to really big. The largest one had a chunk out of its handle,
revealing
the steel rod that ran through it. A large refrigerator/freezer took up the rest of the wall. Frosted cakes, some with decorations, and several cream pies sat on the shelves of the refrigerator, clearly seen through the glass doors. Two white layers rested on a large, mobile cart that sat in the middle of the room, waiting to be put together.

Gina pulled a baking sheet full of bread loaves out of the oven. “Raisin cinnamon.” She hadn’t needed to say that. The aroma drifted through the air, making me salivate. She proceeded to place them on cooling racks, then turned back to take another full tray out of the lower ove
n
.

“But those aren’t done.” The loaves were high and tender
-
looking but very white. Doughy white.

“Of course not.” Gina opened the door of the upper oven and slid in the tray. “They just came out of the proofer.”

“The what?”

“Proofer.” She turned to look at me. “Oh. I’m sorry. That bottom thing isn’t an oven. It’s used for the bread and lots of the pastries. Anything with yeast. They rise faster and more evenly in there. The top is a convection oven. We can bake a whole lot more than a home kitchen can, and do it in a lot less time.”

“Maybe so, but you still have to be here at five o’clock in the morning. I’m going to skip the baking and stick to buying. Especially if Sal keeps going back to
Baba au Rhum
and Semolina cakes.”

Gina smiled. “It’s true, we do get here early. But not as early as when bakers really did bake.”

“What do you mean? You don’t bake all this? Then, who does?”

“We buy a lot of it frozen. We thaw it out, let it rise in the proofer, stick it in the oven, and what do you know
?
We have bread. Or cinnamon rolls. Or Danish
.
”

“What about the cakes?”

“Cake mix.” Gina smiled at the look on my face. ”Not all of them. But this whole operation is pretty streamlined. I don’t think Sal could do it anymore if he couldn’t rely on some shortcuts.”

“He still makes some things from scratch. Like the
Baba au Rhum
. That was no mix.”

“No.” Gina had finished putting the bread on the rolling tray rack and had gone over to the half finished cake. “That was no mix. And this Christmas, the Panettone won’t be made from one either.” She spread what looked like strawberry filling on the bottom layer and placed the top one over it. Another bowl held frosting
, which s
he started to spread on the sides. It didn’t look too different from what I did. Well, what I had watched Aunt Mary do. I haven’t baked many layer cakes. Almost none. Maybe one
.
“What’s Panettone?”

Gina stopped spreading and looked up at me as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You’ve never had Panettone? Not even at the bakery you were telling me about?”

“Well, no. I thought it was some kind of fruit cake, and we don’t especially like
…”

Her expression of disbelief deepened. “You mean the kind someone gives you for Christmas and you finally throw out at Easter? This one’s different. It’s an ancient cake recipe, made with yeast and baked in a dome shape. It originated in Milan and there’s a sort of folktale about how it was created. There are several versions, but they all agree that a young man named Tony, Antonio, invented it to impress the Duke and to win his daughter’s hand in marriage. It seems a lot to ask of a cake, but evidently it worked. It’s become an Italian household tradition to serve it on Christmas Eve.”

“Why?”

“Why Christmas Eve? I don’t know. Why Plum Pudding? Plums aren’t even in season at Christmas. All I know is, it’s a wonderful cake.” She waved her spatula around a little, emphasizing each point with great enthusiasm. Strawberry jam flew off. Some landed on her apron, more ended on the table.

“Oops.” She looked at the mess, then at me. “Did I get any on you?”

“No. You missed me. But you got yourself pretty good.”

She looked down at her apron and laughed. “Guess I’d better not get so carried away. But, Ellen, you have to have a Panettone this year.”

“Are those the ones you see boxed in the stores? Big yellow boxes?”

The scorn in her voice was magnificent. “That’s what they call them. But they’re poor imitations at best. See this?” Gina whirled around on her stool and picked up a ceramic bowl partially covered with a large dishtowel. She whipped it off to show me a gray gluey looking mass. It gave off a strong yeasty smell.

“This is the ‘mother
.
’ You’ve heard of sourdough starter? Well, this is the base for the cake. I
…
Sal and I will
b
ake a test cake to make sure we have this right. A new batch will be made about a week before Christmas. The cakes have to rest at least a day before being eaten
,
so we’ll make them a couple of days before, ready to be picked up Christmas Eve. They’re going to be by special order only. Want me to put your name on the list?”