Meet Your Baker (26 page)
“It started about five years ago. I was messed up. My mom died. It was just my dad and me. He’s a decent guy, but he didn’t know anything about raising me on his own. Works nonstop in real estate anyway. He wasn’t around much so I started drinking to check out. It helped at first, but then I needed more, so I started dabbling in drugs.”
“I can imagine how hard that would be. I lost my dad young too, it sucks.” I could relate to Sterling. If it hadn’t been for Mom, I would have lost it too.
Sterling held my gaze for a moment, gauging my sincerity, before continuing. “Yeah, well, then things got worse. Dabbling turned into addiction. My dad found out. Tried ‘tough love’ and kicked me out. I couch-surfed for a while, started stealing. I was really screwed up.
“I ended up in juvie, did some jail time. I didn’t care. My life wasn’t going anywhere, until one day I noticed this in a window.” He held out his arm and traced the black outline of a hummingbird tattoo on his wrist.
I’d never noticed it was a hummingbird. Tattoos covered every inch of skin on his arms.
“My mom loved hummingbirds.” He dropped his head. “I saw this in the window of a tat shop and it was like she was speaking to me. I’m not really religious or anything, but this tattoo saved me. Before she died I asked her to send me a sign. I remember a hummingbird flying around me outside at her funeral. I knew she was sending me a message. I walked inside, got this, called my dad right after, and asked him to send me to rehab. I’ve been clean ever since.”
“Wow.” I took a deep breath. “That’s really powerful.”
He gave me a half smile. “I like this reminder that my mom’s with me every day. I’m not going to screw up again.”
I’ve never been attracted to tattoos, but hearing Sterling’s story made me want one.
“I’m sure you won’t. Your mom must be so proud of you.” I smiled back. “How does this tie into Nancy’s murder though?”
“Yeah, I’m getting to that.” Sterling dug his nails into his arm. “When I got out of rehab Dad took me back in. We put the past behind us. He’d started dating this new woman. I didn’t like her and not because I missed Mom. Enough time had passed. I wanted him to be happy, you know?”
I did. I thought about Mom and the Professor.
“But I knew this woman was only after his money.”
“Wait, let me guess, Nancy?” This hit me like a ton of bricks.
“Yep.”
“Oh, Sterling. I’m so sorry,” I said, remembering Nancy’s story about her dead fiancé. “First your mom died and then your dad? That must have been awful.”
“No. Dad’s alive and well. Nancy made up that whole story. One of her many lies. Dad didn’t see it, at least not at first. She was sickeningly sweet, but I saw through her. Anyway, she came up with this scheme when they got engaged. Had Dad create a ‘wedding’ account. As soon as she had access to the money, she drained it and took off. It destroyed Dad. He’d already lost Mom and then to have Nancy betray him. He was gutted.”
“So you came here after her?”
Sterling nodded. “I felt like I owed Dad. I’d screwed up. Kind of part of making amends, you know? I followed her here because I wanted to confront her and I wanted her to give Dad his money back.”
“Won’t the authorities do that? Couldn’t your dad have asked them to trace her? It wasn’t as if she was hiding out around here. She made her presence pretty known.”
“Not really. It was a joint account. He didn’t have to sign off for her to make a withdrawal. Technically what Nancy did wasn’t illegal, just immoral. Dad contacted a lawyer, who told him it could take years to fight to get the money back in court. He didn’t have it in him to go after her.”
“That’s horrible.”
“Yeah. It was a stupid move for Dad to open an account with her. It just shows how manipulative she was. She completely worked him, and a bunch of other guys like him too. She has a wad of cash from all over the country.”
Sterling shook his head. “Dad’s a smart guy when it comes to finances. I know if a friend had been in the same position he would have advised the friend to steer clear.”
“That’s how it always goes. We can’t see something until we’re outside of it.”
A warning bell sounded in the hallway, reminding actors to be on stage for final marking.
We were both startled.
“Anyway, I didn’t really have a plan. When I got here I couldn’t believe all the people Nancy had made enemies of in such a short time.”
“What about Caroline? What’s her connection?”
“She came to me. Somehow she must have learned that I had an agenda. I hadn’t actually worked up the courage to confront Nancy yet. I stalked her at Torte and was trying to decide what to say to her.”
“Did you talk to her before she was killed?”
“No, just that night at Torte. Stephanie forgot her book. I walked with her so she could grab it. Nancy was so drunk she didn’t even recognize me. When she knocked Stephanie into the pastry case, I lost it.”
“What did she do?”
“Nothing. Laughed.” Sterling’s eyes hardened. “I did want to kill her, but I didn’t. I swear, Stephanie and I just left.”
I knew Thomas would be here any minute.
“What about Caroline?” I pressed.
“Yeah, like I said, she found out I was watching Nancy. Told me she had some information that I might want. I met her at Torte and she showed me the photo of Nancy and Richard. She said Nancy had been blackmailing Richard for years. I thought maybe the police could use it in building a case on her.”
“Hello, Jules?” Thomas’s voice echoed in the hallway.
Sterling flinched.
I grabbed his arm. “It’s going to be okay. Deputy Adams is a good guy. Tell him everything you told me. You’ll be fine.”
He looked unsure, but agreed.
I wasn’t worried. Sterling’s story resolved a lot of my questions, but it left me with one huge gaping hole—who else could have wanted that photo? Could they have killed for it?
Thomas ordered me to leave and led Sterling to the police station for questioning. The sun hung low on the horizon as I stepped outside into the smoky evening air. The dinner rush had made its way up Pioneer Street and crowded the bricks, waiting for the Bowmer Theater to open.
I chuckled as I passed a circle of women in their mid-forties wearing buttons reading “
WE LOVE PUCK
” and “
OBERON, CALL ME
.” Shakespeare groupies.
The clock on the bank building read 7:30
P.M.
as I trekked down the hill. Plenty of time for me to drop by the Merry Windsor. I was on a roll, and Richard had practically begged me to come see his kitchen transformation.
Outdoor dining tables along Main Street sat empty. Even the street kids had retreated from their highly visible panhandling spots on the plaza and sidewalks.
A neon
OPEN
sign flashed in the window of the Merry Windsor. Classic. That pretty much summed up Richard Lord’s taste—neon signage paired with Shakespearean busts in the windows.
No amount of renovation could improve this space, I thought as I stepped inside the dated hotel. The forest green carpet smelled like it had been held over from Tudor times. A chemical apple-scented air freshener behind the reception desk tried to mask the musty smell. It made me gag. I think I’d actually prefer the sooty air outside.
“Is Richard in?” I asked the guy behind the ornate oak desk.
He didn’t bother to look away from his phone screen. “Who’s asking?”
Wow, the service here is about as pleasant as the smell. Note to self—remind Mom we have nothing to worry about.
“Jules Capshaw.”
“Hang on.”
With his cell phone in one hand he punched in numbers on the hotel’s phone system and told Richard I was in the lobby.
“He’ll be down in a sec.”
I browsed through the Merry Windsor’s “library” while waiting for Richard. It consisted of a few tattered copies of Shakespeare’s collected works and an old English reference dictionary. Lame.
A huge hand-drawn poster board stood on an easel next to the doors to the indoor pool. It read: “The Merry Windsor helps the community. Help us fight the forest fires.” A shoebox attached allowed guests to drop money. I wouldn’t put it past Richard to pocket the money for himself.
“Juliet.” Richard’s voice boomed. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Can we talk somewhere, privately?” I asked, watching as Richard’s employee shuffled papers behind the desk to hide his cell phone.
Richard ran a fat finger along the desk. He held it in front of his staff member. “Dust. Take care of this, now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Follow me, Juliet,” Richard commanded. “It’s impossible to hire competent help these days. A monkey could do a better job. A monkey.” He said it loudly enough to ensure anyone within a five-mile radius could hear him.
I kept pace with Richard as we passed through a dingy hallway that was plastered with old playbills and posters. Lightbulbs were missing from a number of the brass fixtures. I wondered if this was intentional, to hide the stains in the carpet.
Richard barked out orders to the hostess in the dining room. She scurried to fill our water glasses before we sat.
“Grab us a bottle of my private reserve,” Richard demanded. “Juliet, what do you want to eat?”
“I’m fine.”
“NO, what do you want to eat? You come to my restaurant. You have my food. Now, what do you want?”
“Uh, what do you recommend?” I asked the waitress hovering next to us.
“I like the shepherd’s pie.”
“NO. She can’t have that. Bring us the chef’s special.” Richard waved her off.
He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his portly stomach. “Wait to be amazed.”
It took every ounce of self-control to hold back a snippy retort. If I wanted to get any information out of Richard, I was going to have to play nice.
“I’m looking forward to it.”
“Have you come to apologize?”
“Apologize?”
Richard threw his head back and laughed. “How easily she forgets.” He rocked his chair forward. “Our conversation? You spreading lies. Are you ready to apologize?”
“Listen, I haven’t been spreading lies, Richard. I’m sorry if that’s what you think, but I’m just trying to figure out what happened to Nancy and get back to normal.”
He scoffed. “Normal. Torte. Ha. You need to talk some sense into that mother of yours. Have her sell to me. I’ll make sure she comes out okay.”
Man, this guy is a broken record.
“Look, I’m not here to discuss Torte’s future with you.” I tried to think of a way to convince Richard we both needed Nancy’s murder solved. The green carpet and musty smell continued in the dining room. Heavy oak tables with stiff-backed (and, I might add, highly uncomfortable) chairs made the space feel like a retirement home. I could only imagine how the food would taste.
The waitress returned with Richard’s expensive bottle of wine. It bought me time as he went through a charade of smelling the cork, the bottle, swirling a bottom full of the plum-colored liquid in his glass, sniffing, spitting, tasting, and repeating the entire process. His pretension trumped even the most pompous customers we had on the ship.
Richard finally nodded his approval and the waitress poured us generous glasses of wine.
He waited for me to take a sip, his face unable to hide his eagerness.
“What do you think, smooth, isn’t it? I acquired a case of this beauty last year in Italy. Only the finest for the Merry Windsor.”
I swished the wine in my mouth. Two could play this game. “I taste currants and oak.”
“Ah, a refined palate. Yes, this wine has been aged in French oak
barriques
for eighteen months. It enhances the finish, doesn’t it?”
I murmured agreement. Richard had probably read that description on the back of the bottle.
“Richard.” I set my wine on the table and leaned forward. “Can we be honest with each other?”
“Honesty is my middle name, Juliet.”
Yeah, right.
“Good, then let’s agree to table the Torte full-court press and talk about what really matters.”
“Which is?”
“Nancy Hudson’s murder.”
Richard refilled his wine glass.
“What about it?”
“We both know that murder is bad for business in town.” I figured this might be the only tactic that would sway Richard to come clean on what he knew. Hit him where it counts—his bottom line.
“Go on.”
I picked up my wine glass. “I propose we call a truce for the moment.”
Richard knocked back the remaining wine and poured himself a third glass. The man could drink.
He clicked my glass. “Deal.”
“Great.”
The waitress arrived with our food. Classic American diner fare masquerading as four-star restaurant quality. Apparently Richard believed that naming everything on his menu after Shakespeare and garnishing each dish with swirls of gravy and a sprig of fresh parsley meant that customers would be lining up for a “fine” dining experience.
I’m no food snob. Carlos can be, but I love a good juicy burger and American fries doused with ketchup. Mostly I prefer simple food done beautifully. When in doubt, I err on the side of understated. Even the Merry Windsor’s plates screamed Elizabethan theme park with their gold-rimmed edges and gaudy gold leaf design.
It didn’t look like I was alone in my assessment. The dining room, except for a young couple with an infant, was devoid of other customers.
“Incredible, isn’t it?” Richard devoured his meal. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see him ditch the silverware and dive in with his hands.
Cutting into my overdone steak took all the strength I could muster. The mashed potatoes, whipped and presented like a hand-piped volcano, tasted like they came from a box. I stabbed a spear of butter-drenched asparagus that went limp on my fork.
I swallowed the dry beef with wine and flashed him a smile. “Incredible. Back to Nancy.” I reached for more wine.
“Yeah, thanks to you,” Richard interrupted, “I’ve had the police crawling all over here. Took me in for questioning. Thanks a lot.”
“That wasn’t my fault. You’re the one who left a glove at the murder scene.”
