Meet Your Baker (12 page)
“Don’t let its appearance fool you, these babies are delish. See how the skin is slightly cracking?” I rotated the fig in my hand. “And, this hole splitting on the base? That’s a perfect fig.”
I sliced the succulent fruit open to reveal the brilliant flesh and seeds. The heavy, sugary fruit looked as if its insides were melting. The color was close to pomegranate seeds, with a buttery undertone.
For a food geek like me, this was close to nirvana. I hadn’t worked with figs since culinary school. They’re too expensive and too delicate to have on the ship.
The interesting thing about figs is that unlike most other fruits they don’t ripen off the tree. I spent a summer in high school helping on one of the local farms, and picking figs was always the most challenging task. Not because they’re particularly hard to pick off the tree. In fact, once the fruit drops they’re quite easy to twist off. But because the window for ripening is so tight.
If picked too early green hard figs are starchy and bitter. But, if left too long to ripen on the tree, figs will split open on their own and end up being devoured by gangs of local birds. Many people don’t know that figs can be eaten straight from the tree. No need to peel them. Just give them a good rinse and eat them skin and all. That’s how I prefer them.
Andy waited for me to enjoy a moment of solitude with the fruit before prodding me for further direction.
“Give them a gentle, gentle water bath and then slice them open like this.” I showed him how to cut the fig lengthwise.
Mom snatched a fig from the table. “As much as I’m praying for future grandchildren, I’m not sure you could handle kids if you’re this concerned about your figs.” She bit into the fig. “They are divine,” she said with a full mouth.
After Andy finished washing and slicing them, I planned to roast them in the oven with bacon, goat cheese, and a balsamic reduction. They’d be a perfect savory/sweet side dish for breakfast or lunch.
Handing me two cookie sheets of gorgeous figs, Andy ground beans for the drip coffee machines. The smell of the aromatic beans made Torte buzz to life. Andy flipped through a spiral notebook under the bar and made a note of his grinding time. Wow. What a coffee connoisseur.
With my fig creation baking in the oven, I switched gears and began mixing an oatmeal-cookie base. One trick that I learned working with massive amounts of pastry on the ship was to embellish from a base.
This batch of dough would be divided into four smaller bowls where I’d add other ingredients to make unique flavor combinations. Today I opted for dark chocolate and coconut, peanut butter and milk chocolate, white chocolate with fresh-squeezed orange juice and a hint of orange zest, and sour cherry with almonds.
It would give our customers palate-pleasing choices without having to make four different kinds of dough.
Stephanie arrived a few minutes before six, with a sullen expression and sunglasses hiding her eyes. I knew the morning dusk would give way to sun, but there was no need for shades at this hour. Could she be hiding something else?
“You okay?” I asked, pointing to the shades.
“I’m fine,” she muttered, ignoring my look of concern and hurrying to put her backpack away and wash her hands.
We have a firm rule that the first thing you do upon entering the bakeshop is to wash your hands. Hand washing is an ongoing affair in a bakery, leading to cracked and dry hands. Mom stocks Archipelago hand wash formulated with olive oil, elder and orange blossoms, and sage leaves. Not only does it make our hands smell fresh, but the oil helps repair the damage from overwashing.
When Stephanie returned to the kitchen with an apron and clean hands, she still wore her sunglasses.
“Sorry, but those are going to have to go before customers arrive,” I said.
She didn’t move.
“Did you hear me?” I asked. “I need you to lose the shades.”
Stephanie remained frozen.
Mom stopped kneading bread dough and intervened. She put her hand on Stephanie’s shoulder. “Stephanie, are you all right?”
Every muscle in Stephanie’s body tightened.
“Can you take your glasses off, please?” Mom’s calm voice held a hint of firmness that made it clear she wasn’t really asking.
Stephanie slowly removed her sunglasses and hung her head, letting her black and purple hair hide her face.
“Stephanie,” Mom commanded. “Look at me.”
Stephanie raised her head one vertebra at a time.
When her eyes finally made contact with Mom’s we all gasped. Stephanie’s right eye, swollen and black, looked as gnarly as a bad fig.
Mom sprang into action. “Andy, get some ice. Stephanie, come with me—sit.” She forced Stephanie into the nearest chair and called to me, “Juliet, will you bring us a cup of coffee and a muffin?”
In any time of emergency or crisis, Mom’s answer is always to eat something sweet.
I poured a cup of Andy’s dark Arabica blend and delivered a steaming mug and a butter-pecan muffin to Stephanie.
Watching her put the ice pack on her eye made me flash back to my injury last night. We were becoming quite the motley crew.
Stephanie nursed her eye and her coffee. Mom waited. I made trips back and forth between the pastry case and ovens, arranging warm muffins, cookies, breads, and croissants on the shelves. We’d be open for business in a few minutes, and I wanted customers to have the freshest experience possible.
Passing by the table, I heard Stephanie finally start to speak. I tried to look intent on forming tidy rows of éclairs while trying to eavesdrop on their conversation.
I heard Stephanie say something about running into a door.
No way. That bruise had been hand-delivered, and I had an idea who did it—Sterling, the skater kid in the hoodie who was hanging out yesterday.
Was Stephanie in an abusive relationship gone wrong? Could Sterling be putting her up to stealing from Torte? Maybe that’s what they’d been fighting about? Maybe Stephanie had told him the gig was up and he got angry?
If he showed up today, one thing was for sure—I was going to find out.
Mom ushered Stephanie into the bathroom and cleaned up the table. “Time to start the day, everyone,” she announced, unlocking the front door. “It’s going to be busy.”
That was an understatement. The moment she opened the door a line of locals pushed their way in. Everyone wanted a firsthand account of yesterday’s tragedy.
Pastries and coffee flew out the door. Andy manned the espresso bar; Stephanie dished up pastries and worked the cash register. Cash flow would be in the black by noon at this rate. I tried to keep an eye on the two of them, but with the surge of customers, it was nearly impossible to keep up with demand for baked goods and gossip. Torte had become the stage for real-life drama that would rival the latest Shakespearean drama playing on the Elizabethan stage.
Mom circulated the room, trying to quiet the frenzy, while I whipped up batch after batch of muffins and Danish. My figs didn’t make it until lunch. They sold out in the first two hours.
By mid-morning, Torte’s role in Nancy’s murder must have made it all the way around town, because we had our first lull. Mom pulled Stephanie into the kitchen. I watched as she showed Stephanie how to chop walnuts. Maybe this was Mom’s way of checking in. Andy wiped down the counter. I poured myself another cup of coffee and used the opportunity to sit for a minute.
Just as I plopped myself down in a booth, the door jingled and Caroline rushed in. She placed her order with Andy and spotted me sitting by the window.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she gushed. “I need to talk to you.” She scanned the room and let her eyes linger on Mom and Stephanie, conferring in the kitchen.
Was she was really worried about Mom? Maybe she knew something about who’d been skimming from Torte.
Andy appeared with a mocha, foaming with whipped cream and drizzled with dark chocolate. Caroline clammed up. “Here’s your coffee, I’ll be back in a sec with your pastries.”
Did she suspect Andy?
Sipping the mocha, she motioned for me to keep quiet when Andy delivered a plate of pastries to the table.
“Are you meeting someone?” I asked, looking at the plate in front of her. “Not that I’m judging…” I didn’t want to come across like Nancy, but I’d never known anyone to eat an entire plate of pastries on their own. Torte’s stuff is rich. One and done, or at least pace yourself, was my philosophy.
“I’m a nervous eater.” She fiddled with a row of purple beaded bracelets on her wrist. “But yes, I’m hoping to meet someone. That is, if they show.”
Was she waiting for a date? Why all the mystery?
“Did you want to talk to me about something?” I prodded. “You mentioned being worried about my mom?”
She moved a lock of her ginger hair from her face, carefully so she didn’t touch her makeup. “Huh?” She seemed distracted. “Have you spoken to Lance?”
“Lance? No, why?”
Caroline dug into an almond croissant. Crumbs flaked onto the table and the purple peasant blouse she wore. It reminded me of a costume from the Elizabethan era with an empire waist and flowing sleeves.
“Listen, Juliet, I need to know something.” She swallowed the last bit of the croissant and gave me a threatening stare. I’m sure she used looks like that on the stage. “Are you or are you not joining the company?”
“What are you talking about? I’m not joining anything. I’m only here for a few weeks.”
“Hmm.” She considered me for a moment. It felt like she was trying to penetrate my brain.
Finally, she brushed away a crumb and surveyed the bakeshop. “I can’t talk here. Ever since that witch was murdered it isn’t safe to talk here. Are you free later? Could you come meet me at the theater after the show? We need to talk alone.”
What was Caroline’s deal? And where was she getting the idea that I was joining OSF? My curiosity was piqued.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Where should I meet you?”
“Come to my dressing room. I’ll leave a note at the box office.” She paused and took another bite of the croissant. “You want tickets to the show? I could leave a couple for you?”
It had been ages since I’d seen a show. That might be just the distraction I needed with Nancy’s murder and my concern about Mom and Torte.
“That’d be great, thanks! Although it’ll just be me. I only need one ticket.”
“I’ll leave you two, in case you change your mind.” Caroline winked. “You know there’s a certain someone in town who’s especially thrilled to have you home.”
I knew exactly who she was hinting at, but I wasn’t taking the bait.
The bakeshop had begun to buzz again. This time it was the out-of-town visitors, who had the luxury of sleeping in and were on the hunt for sweets and coffee—but hold the side of gossip.
“Better get back to it,” I said to Caroline. “Thanks for the ticket. I’ll see you tonight.”
From the kitchen I watched as Caroline waited in the booth for at least twenty minutes. I’d catch her watching out the window and scanning the line at the front counter. She must be looking for her mystery guest.
I got caught up in baking yet another round of pastries to restock the cases before the lunch crowd arrived. It wasn’t until I went to refill the bread shelf that I realized Caroline’s guest had showed after all.
It wasn’t a date. Caroline and Sterling were deep in conversation.
What could Caroline and Sterling be talking about? He looked like he’d slept on the street. His skateboard, decorated with skulls, stood propped next to the table. Neither of them looked happy. I didn’t have a chance to find out why because Caroline thrust a piece of paper into his hand, gave him a determined look, and hurried out the door.
Add that to my list for our conversation tonight.
Stephanie suddenly became machinelike in her work. I watched her move at lightning speed between tables, gathering dirty plates, wiping tabletops with bleach water, and even (gasp!) smiling at a customer. However, she avoided Sterling’s table like it was toxic. She squeezed between the smaller tables instead of taking the wider path between the booths.
This made me more convinced than ever that Sterling had something to do with her black eye.
No time like the present to find out,
I said to myself, reaching for a vanilla scone and winding my way to the booth.
He sat slumped with his black hoodie covering his hair. Clearly he hadn’t changed since yesterday. The paper Caroline had given him appeared to be a grainy photo of a group of people in front of the Elizabethan stage. When I placed the scone in front of him, he grabbed the photo and slid it into the front pocket of his hoodie.
“I don’t think we’ve officially met.” I extended my hand. “I’m Jules.”
“Hey.” He looked up with his startling light eyes and held my gaze. The handshake he gave me in return was surprisingly firm. Even his fingers were tattooed.
We remained with locked hands and eyes for a minute before he finally dropped my hand.
“It’s usually customary to return the introduction…” I gave him an expectant look.
He took the hoodie off his head and ruffled his hair. “Right, sorry. Sterling.”
“Sterling, it’s nice to meet you.” I sat across from him. “Help yourself. Hot out of the oven.” I motioned to the scone.
“Thanks.” He took a bite. It felt like he was intentionally stalling. Or, maybe he and Stephanie were a match—neither appeared to be a lover of words.
“Are you new in town?” I asked.
Sterling polished off the scone, licking his index finger and pressing it into the crumbs on the plate. He ate them one by one, while I waited, tapping my foot under the table.
“That’s really good,” he said, popping the last bite into his mouth. “What did you say?”
Was the kid starving or trying to annoy me?
“I wondered if you’re new in town?”
“Uh, I guess. I’m kind of passing through.”
“Where are you from?”
He shrugged. “All over, you know.”
“You know Stephanie? I saw you talking to her in here yesterday.”
Sterling put his hands in the pocket where he’d hidden the photo. “Yeah, she’s cool.”
