Meet Your Baker (16 page)
“He can’t do that, Mom. He can’t just take over the shop.”
She didn’t meet my eye.
“Mom, no way! No way is Richard getting his hands on Torte. Let’s talk it out. Let’s go over everything line by line and we’ll figure it out. Okay?”
She gave a half nod.
I made my voice firm. “OKAY?”
She smiled and agreed. However, she didn’t look fully convinced. I sent her home and promised I’d stay and spend a few hours going over the books. I kept my tone light and my outlook positive. But as I began adding up the total of unpaid bills I understood why Mom looked dejected.
Torte was in the red. Deep in the red.
My eyes felt gritty after nearly three hours of dissecting Torte’s financial situation. The list of people who owed Torte money read like a who’s who of the town. From these numbers it looked like Mom had floated half the town and a handful of failed business for the last four years. No wonder money was so tight.
In total, if my calculations were correct, Torte was due twenty-five thousand dollars in outstanding invoices. That’s a lot of dough for a slice of cake or a scone.
The clock ticked. It was after seven
P.M.
Time to call it a night. I wanted to change before the show.
I closed up the leather-bound receipt book and stacked my notes and papers. Tomorrow Mom and I could formulate a plan. For starters, no more freebies. Broke or not, anyone who came in the doors would have to pony up for a pastry.
As I bundled up my work, the pen I’d been using dropped under the island. I tried to reach it with my foot, but couldn’t, so bent down on my knees and tried to reach my arm under.
I stretched my hand and felt the cold floor with my fingers. I couldn’t reach it. It must have rolled to the other side of the island.
I crawled around the island, fingering underneath it for my lost pen. Something soft and leathery hit my fingertips. I pulled the item from beneath the island and sat back in surprise to find myself holding a golf glove.
To be more specific—a leather golf glove monogrammed with the initials
R.L.
R.L.
Richard Lord.
What was that doing here?
I examined the glove and immediately dropped it when I noticed dark red stains splatted on it. Was that Nancy’s blood? If so, was this crime scene evidence?
For a moment I sat frozen on the kitchen floor. What should I do?
I had to call Thomas.
I left the glove on the floor. I didn’t want my fingerprints to smudge Richard’s. That’s how it works in the movies anyway. I’d have to ask Thomas if it was the same in real life.
“Thomas, it’s Jules. I think I found an important piece of evidence. Can you come to Torte?” I rambled into the phone before Thomas could barely say, “Hello?”
“Slow down, Jules,” Thomas’s calm voice responded. “What did you find?”
“Richard’s golf glove. It was under the island. You must have missed it. It was stuck far beneath it.”
“Okay, okay, hold on. I think the Professor is nearby. I’ll call him and have him swing by. Don’t touch anything else in the meantime, okay?”
“Don’t worry, I won’t.”
While I waited for the Professor to arrive, I thought about Lance’s run-in with Richard. I was more convinced than ever that Richard might be Nancy’s killer. Was he the one who’d attacked me last night? Perhaps in search of his missing glove?
A soft rap on the window alerted me that the Professor had arrived. I let him in and directed him to the glove resting ominously close to the spot on the floor where I’d discovered Nancy.
He stood above the glove, fingering his speckled beard. “‘The wheel is come full circle.’”
“What’s that from?”
“
King Lear.
” He removed a pair of blue latex gloves and stretched them over his hands.
What was the Professor trying to imply with this quote from
King Lear
? Full circle. Had he suspected Richard from the beginning?
As he bent over to remove the glove from the floor, his back stiffened halfway. I almost reached down to grab it for him, but realized I wasn’t wearing gloves.
He stood and placed one hand on the small of his back. “The old bones don’t work the way they used to. You know what the bard said about aging, don’t you?”
I shook my head.
“‘Age, with his stealing steps, hath clawed me in his clutch.’”
“You don’t look that old to me.”
“I’m the same age as your mother, but I fear she’s aging much more gracefully than me.”
His brown eyes sparkled as he mentioned my mom. Before I could respond, he motioned to the breast pocket of his tweed jacket.
“Could I trouble you for an evidence bag? I seem to have forgotten to remove one.” He held the blood-spattered glove.
I reached into his pocket and found a neatly folded plastic bag and set it on the island.
He studied the glove, carefully examining every detail down to the stitching along the seams.
“Mmm-hmm,” he said with a satisfied look, placing the glove in the evidence bag and zipping it shut.
“That’s Richard’s glove, isn’t it? Does this mean Mia can be released?”
“‘Dearest Juliet, remember it is not in the stars to hold our destiny, but in us.’”
The endless Shakespeare quotes were making me crazy.
“I see that you’re distressed.” He tugged his gloves off and dumped them in the trash. “Forgive me if you think I’m making light of the grave situation that rests in front of us. I fear sometimes I get caught up in Shakespeare’s words. I find they still apply all these years later, don’t they?”
The Professor continued, buttoning his jacket and making his way toward the door. He patted the evidence bag. “Fear not, this will not lie. The killer will be revealed soon. Say hello to your mother for me.” He tucked his pencil behind his ear and walked out the door.
I felt more confused than ever. Did the Professor suspect Richard? Did he know something about Mia that I didn’t? Or was there some other suspect? He made it sound like he was close to wrapping up the investigation.
And what was going on between him and Mom?
There wasn’t time to change before the play. I rushed along Main Street and ran across the plaza and up the steep sidewalk of Pioneer Street to the OSF complex. We call this space “the bricks” for the brick communal area that connects the Bowmer and Elizabethan stages. One-hundred-year-old ivy vines and blooming laurel hedges wrap the buildings.
One of the best parts of the summer season at OSF is the preshow pageantry. There’s something about the pomp and circumstance of the raising of the flag before the outdoor show, and musicians performing on the bricks while the energy of the crowd grows, that’s captivating.
When I think about it, this piece of Ashland is much like the make-believe floating city the cruise line has created. People come seeking to escape and maybe also to try and capture a little slice of their lost childhood.
I’d missed all of that tonight. The bricks were already deserted and I heard the ding of the warning bell reminding audience members to take their seats.
I hurried across the street to the box office. Smoke from the forest fires caught in my lungs.
Wheezing, I told the box office attendant my name. “I’m late. Caroline left me a ticket.”
She handed me the ticket. “Hope you have a cough drop. Remember, the actors can hear
everything
from the audience.”
The open-air Elizabethan theater is a sight to behold. It’s the centerpiece of the festival. The ornamentation of the building is inspired by the Tudors, with balconies, box seats that hover along the sides, and the most critical feature of all—the elements.
Performances don’t stop for the rain. Of course, it rarely rains in the summer, but when it does the actors might have to slow down the pacing of their fight scenes or don raingear, but as they say, “the show must go on.”
I found my seat. Center stage, front row.
“Nice. Thanks, Caroline,”
I thought.
The couple to my right literally bounced with excitement. “Is this your first show, dear?” a woman with a mop of gray curls asked.
“I guess so, of the season anyway.” A tickle caught in the back of my throat. “Is it yours?”
The woman’s husband looked equally eager and shoved a package of lemon drops at me. “Have one. The smoke’s pretty bad. This is our eighth.” Her husband beamed. He nudged his wife. “Show her.”
His wife reached into the purse resting at her feet and removed an assortment of programs. She handed them to me with great care, as if they were the Declaration of Independence. “Be careful with them,” she cautioned. “We have the autograph of nearly every actor in the company.”
“You must be big fans,” I replied, thumbing through the programs and making the appropriate oohs and ahhs as they pointed out autographs scrawled by some of the senior statesmen in the company.
I knew their type—theater stalkers. The thing about the Oregon Shakespeare Festival is that even though it’s one of the largest productions and companies in the United States, since it’s set here in Ashland, the actors are very accessible.
In a town this small, it would be difficult not to run into actors at the restaurants and shops on Main Street, even while buying groceries at our local Safeway.
Most actors in the company relish the attention. You’ll see them signing playbills as they nosh on steaks at a restaurant after the show, or in the checkout line in the grocery store. It makes the experience that much more authentic for visitors who feel like they’re really part of the festival. It also leads to an occasional theater stalker, like the sweet couple sitting next to me.
While the friendly stalkers reviewed tonight’s lineup, I caught a glimpse of Lance side-stage. From his animated gestures it looked like he was pumping up the actors for their performance.
I sat back in my seat and took in the stage. I’d forgotten how it made me feel like I was stepping back in time—way back.
The fading sun left the sky a purplish color, though I’m sure the lovely hue was also due in part to the smoke from the forest fires burning nearby. Three fires burning in the surrounding hills had trapped the smoke in the valley. If they came much closer, OSF might have to cancel. You can’t have twelve hundred people breathing smoke for three hours straight.
Tonight, along with smoke, I could smell honeysuckle. The sweet, smoky air felt warm, but I was a bit worried that I hadn’t brought along a jacket. When the sun finally sank in the sky it might get chilly.
Lance entered center stage to immediate applause. He scoffed at the audience, pretending to disdain the attention. His posture said otherwise.
He introduced the play, the actors, and gave a quick insider’s talk as to why he chose this particular play and how his vision of its staging was revolutionary.
What a humble guy, I thought, as my seatmates practically swooned.
Lance gave a final bow and exited the stage. I was surprised when he appeared in the empty seat to my left a few minutes later.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” I asked.
The couple next to me nearly jumped in my lap. They thrust their program and a black Sharpie at Lance. I leaned back in my seat to give them room.
Lance signed his autograph. I could tell he loved the attention. The stage lights came on and the couple leaned back in their seats, giddy with anticipation.
I whispered to Lance, “Why are you sitting out here?”
He placed his arm around my seatback. “The company, darling.” He squinted. “Does that light look red to you? I can barely make out the lighting on the balcony tonight. The smoke’s getting thick. Hope it doesn’t throw off the timing.”
I nudged his arm off my chair and shrugged. “I don’t know anything about lighting. Isn’t that your job?”
He pretended to be injured. “Ouch. Now what kind of a welcome is that? You could take a lesson from those two.” He nodded at the couple.
“Please,” I scoffed. “What are you really doing here?”
“Can’t an artistic director take in a different view? I try to watch at least one show from out here, with the little people. It gives me ideas for staging. Plus, I heard you were gracing our presence this evening and couldn’t miss out on the opportunity.” He blew me a kiss.
The play began before I could say anything more. The production was mesmerizing. I felt myself becoming sucked deeper and deeper into Shakespeare’s drama, understanding why my seatmates were so enthralled with the festival.
The acting was so seamless I forgot I was watching—it felt like I was living it.
Caroline was hypnotic. Her portrayal of Lady Macbeth had me shuddering, she was so convincing. The costumes, lighting, open air, all of it made the first two acts breeze by.
I couldn’t believe it when the lights came up and the bell chimed that it was time for intermission. Lance excused himself. The couple next to me made their way to the drink line.
I sat completely captivated. Caroline embodied Lady Macbeth in ways I’d never witnessed. Growing up in Ashland, I’d seen my fair share of
Macbeth
productions over the years. Anger raged quietly through every pore. Her eyes bored into the audience, as if she was ready to pounce. I shivered, and not just from the cooling air.
The stalker couple returned with rosy cheeks.
“I chugged my chardonnay,” the wife confessed. “Wouldn’t want to miss the next act.”
We chatted while we waited for the show to start again. They were from the Bay area—shocker. Retired and traveling north for the summer in their tricked-out RV—total shocker.
The husband commented, “Intermission sure feels long. They haven’t even rung the first warning bell yet.”
“How long has it been?” I asked, noting the bejeweled watch adorning his wife’s wrist.
“Thirty minutes.”
“That can’t be right.” I sat up in my seat and tried to see if I could catch a view of the side-stage from this angle.
I couldn’t.
“Are you sure it’s been thirty minutes?”
The woman held out her arm for me to read her watch.
