Meet Your Baker (27 page)

“I didn’t even have my golf gloves on me when Nancy and I were at Torte. Like I told the Professor, I keep my gloves in my golf bag. I have a custom bag that has a special pocket for my gloves. Why would I bring my gloves to a bakery at midnight?”

I considered this for a moment. He had a point.

“You’re not eating much. You don’t like it?”

“I told you I wasn’t hungry.”

“What kind of pastry chef doesn’t like to eat?”

“Forget it, Richard.” I stabbed another limp spear of asparagus to get him off my back. “If you didn’t have your glove, how do you think it ended up at Torte?”

“I think someone planted it.” Richard stared meaningfully at me. “Someone who wants to see me go down. The same someone who called the health department on me.”

“We already went over this. I didn’t do any of those things.”

“Maybe your mom did.”

“Richard, come on. You know as well as I do that there’s no way Mom would do anything like that.”

“You know what they say, desperate times call for desperate measures.” He grabbed my plate. “If you’re not going to eat, I will.”

“It’s all yours,” I said, placing my cheap paper napkin on the table. Time to catch him off guard. “Richard, I know about Mia.”

He paused with his fork in midair. “What about Mia?”

“That she’s your daughter.” I let the statement hang in the air, waiting for Richard to explode. Instead he scooped a heap of mashed potatoes onto his fork and shrugged.

“Oh, that. Yeah, we’ll see.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’ve ordered a paternity test. I know what she and her mother are up to. They want my money.”

“They do?”

Richard chomped on a piece of my steak.

“If that’s true, why haven’t they hit you up for money before now? It seems like if anything, Mia’s mom has tried to keep it a secret. I know they’ve been broke for years. Why wouldn’t she have come to you for money sooner? It wasn’t until Nancy arrived that this came out.”

With a mouthful of steak, Richard paused, then protested. “Nah, they’re after my money. Nancy warned me. I should have listened.”

“Nancy warned you that Mia was after your money? How did she know?”

Richard poured the remaining wine into his glass and took a big swig. “How should I know?”

“I’m confused. I thought Nancy was blackmailing you to keep quiet about Mia.”

“Ha!” Richard coughed, choking on the steak as he laughed. He recovered himself. “Blackmailing me? That’s ludicrous.
I
don’t get blackmailed.”

The way he emphasized the “I” made me pause.

“Richard Lord doesn’t get blackmailed and certainly not by Nancy,” he repeated.

Our waitress returned and whispered something in his ear.

“Duty calls. Feel free to stay as long as you like.” Richard stood. “You might want to catch a glimpse of the remodel on your way out. Tell your mother I said hello.” He sneered and left the dining room.

I took him up on his offer and stayed to finish my wine and consider our conversation. Had Richard implied that he was blackmailing someone?

Chapter Forty

By the time I left the Merry Windsor the street lamps cast a hazy glow on the sidewalk. The smoke was so thick I could barely see my hand in front of my face. Time to hightail it home.

Home. What did that even mean? If I was being honest with myself I’d been homeless for a while now. Being back in Ashland made me wonder why I left. I liked to tell myself that I wanted—needed—to see the world. That’s only half true.

If I’d stayed, I knew exactly what my life would look like: I’d be married to Thomas, we’d probably have a couple kids, a mint-green Victorian off Mountain Avenue, a shaggy dog with muddy paws, and a quiet discontent, a constant wondering what if …

Those two little words “what if” hold so much power. What if I’d never left? What if Carlos hadn’t lied to me? What if I don’t know what to do next?

I guess it works both ways. If I had stayed I would have always wished I’d gone. Since I left, I guess I’ll always wonder if I made a mistake. There’s no escaping wondering. It’s a question of what to do now.

Mom always says, “Make a decision based on where you’re at, at this moment in time. The choice you make tomorrow might be different, but it doesn’t matter.”

The problem is, I don’t know what I want to do
today.

As I climbed the steps to my apartment I saw a huge crystal vase with two dozen red roses and sprigs of baby’s breath waiting in front of the door.

The card read “
TE AMO
,
CARLOS
.”

Case in point, I thought as I picked up the heavy vase and brought it inside. I set the roses next to the fresh cut yellow lilies Thomas had given me earlier. The two flower arrangements felt like a tangible symbol of my two parallel lives.

My mind, already fried from trying to piece together the events leading up to Nancy’s murder, couldn’t handle a major life decision. I kicked off my shoes and flipped on the small television. Three of the Portland news stations were reporting live from OSF. Apparently news of Nancy’s murder had spread outside of our small town. I changed the channel and before I knew it was fast asleep on the couch.

My cell woke me a few hours later. I didn’t recognize the number. Who would be calling at two forty-five in the morning?

“Hello?” I mumbled into the phone.

“Juliet, are you awake?”

“Yeah, who is this?”

“Caroline.”

I rubbed my eyes. “Do you know what time it is?”

“No idea. You told me to call you if I remembered anything. I did. I think it’s important.”

I sat up. My feet had gone numb dangling off the couch while I slept. I wiggled them to circulate the blood.

“What?”

“It’s Lance.”

“What’s Lance?”

“You remember how I told you my memory was foggy about the photo and what happened before my accident?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s still jumbled, but I think it has something to do with Lance.”

“The photo?”

Caroline’s voice sounded dejected. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered you. I got excited because I flashed on Lance. I feel like he could be connected to Nancy’s murder, but I don’t know how.”

“That’s okay, Caroline. Don’t worry about it. Get some sleep. I’ll talk to Lance tomorrow.”

“Be careful. It’s got something to do with that picture.”

How could I get my hands on that photo? Had Thomas booked Sterling? Did Sterling still have the photo?

There wasn’t a chance I could fall back to sleep now. I needed to bake. Think and bake.

I dug through the kitchen, finding frozen puff pastry dough and a bowl of fresh peaches. Perfect. I could make a spiced peach pastry. Creating things from what I have on hand has always been more satisfying than planning ahead and shopping for each special ingredient. Some of my best recipes have been born this way. I guess I’ve always been drawn to a challenge.

I opted for some Spanish-free time and popped in one of Mom’s Dylan CDs, turning it up to the max. There wasn’t anyone in the building to bother. What a refreshing feeling, after years of tiptoeing around our tight quarters on the ship.

The pastry needed time to thaw. I removed it from the package and set it next to the stove to defrost while I worked on the peach filling. In a skillet I warmed a tablespoon of butter and began slicing the juicy peaches. As the butter browned, I added a splash of white wine, cinnamon, nutmeg, cardamom, cloves, lemon juice, and sugar. The tartness of the lemon and dry wine should help balance the sweetness of the peaches. I stole a taste—divine. The smell engulfed the kitchen and made me crave coffee.

I dumped the peaches into the sauce and ground some coffee beans. With peaches simmering and coffee on the way, I unrolled the pastry crust and cut each sheet into four squares. Scooping the peaches onto the squares, I folded them together and popped them in the oven.

While they baked, I poured myself a cup of coffee and turned my mind back to Caroline’s phone call. What did Lance have to do with the photo? It was the missing piece of this puzzle; I had to get my hands on it.

The timer on the oven dinged. I removed the golden pastries, which had puffed to perfection, and rested them on the counter. Nothing like breakfast at three-thirty in the morning, I thought as I bit into one. The warm peach juice spilled from the sides of the flaky crust. The tang of the sweet peaches made me swoon. I’d have to make these at Torte.

My coffee had kicked in. I might as well get a jump-start on the day. Wrapping the remaining pastries on a plate, I grabbed my cell phone, keys, and headed to work.

If possible, the smoke seemed thicker. Hopefully the firefighters would be able to contain the fires soon. If not, the entire town might have to be evacuated. As I thought this, I passed a blue fire evacuation route marker.

Torte was deserted when I arrived—no surprise. I flipped on every light and locked the front door behind me. I wasn’t taking any chances.

Pleased with how my peach pastry had turned out, I decided to re-create it for the bakeshop. I found a box of peaches in the pantry, but couldn’t find any puff pastry dough. I know Mom always keeps a stock of it on hand. We use it for turnovers and individual chicken pot pies during the fall and winter.

I searched the walk-in freezer to no avail. The only other place it could be was in the small fridge-freezer in the office. We mainly use this for staff lunches and any overflow if we’re doing a bunch of cakes or specialty orders.

Sure enough, I found six boxes stacked in the freezer. Why had Mom put them in there?

Returning to the kitchen I turned on the ovens, crossing my fingers they’d generate enough heat today. We were going to have to look into replacing them soon. I separated the boxes of pastry dough on the island in order to help them thaw. Stuck to the last box was an eight-by-eleven envelope with Mom’s name handwritten on the front.

I know I shouldn’t have, but I opened it. In fairness, it was already open. The back flap had frozen to the pastry box, and ripped open when I tried to pull it apart.

My stomach knotted as I removed the letter from the envelope. Mom must have intentionally hidden whatever the letter contained. Why?

I scanned the letter. My eyes must be deceiving me. I read it again.

Then I fell forward on the counter, overcome by a wave of dizziness. This time the dizzy feeling had nothing to do with residual seasickness.

The letter was from Richard Lord. Everything he said last night made sense. Mom owed Richard twenty-five thousand dollars. If she didn’t come up with the cash by the end of the month, he was taking control of Torte.

Seriously, could things get any worse?

Chapter Forty-one

I’m not sure how long I stood at the counter, clutching the letter, wondering how and why Mom owed Richard Lord anything. Why hadn’t she told me? I thought she’d come clean about owing her vendors. Now Richard Lord too?

The thought of him taking over Torte made me sick to my stomach. Mom’s behavior made so much more sense. No wonder she’d been so distracted.

“Juliet, Juliet?” Mom’s voice startled me. I hadn’t heard her come in. “Are you here?”

“Yeah, Mom, it’s me.” I clutched the letter to my chest. Should I confront her now, or wait?

She didn’t give me a chance to decide. As she stepped into the kitchen, she took one look at the pastry dough on the island and gasped. “Oh.”

“Mom.” I held the letter closer to my chest. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

She startled when she saw the letter. “I—I didn’t know how.” She took a step backward and grabbed the counter behind her.

I flung the letter on the island and raced to steady her.

“Mom, I’ve got you, it’s okay.”

She collapsed in my arms.

We held each other in silence. This was becoming a habit. We were a pair, weren’t we?

“I didn’t want to burden you, honey. I know how difficult it’s been with Carlos, and then you finding Nancy here. It’s too much. I’ve been exploring my options. Yesterday I met with the bank. There might be a way to leverage the house.”

“NO! Mom, no. That’s not happening.”

She steadied herself. “Juliet, it’s okay. This is my problem.”

“Wait a minute. That’s not fair. You lectured me yesterday about Carlos, how we’re in this together. I’m not letting you go this alone, Mom. No way.”

She gave a forced smile and patted my arm. “I got myself into this mess. I’ll find a way out.”

“Mom, I’m not a kid anymore. You don’t have to go this alone. Please, tell me how this happened and let me help.”

“You already know it all.” She shrugged. “The only part I failed to mention is that when things got tight, I couldn’t get a loan from the bank. They didn’t think the business was viable, given the local economy.” Her voice wobbled as she continued. “Over twenty years of business and they didn’t think it was viable.”

I felt angry on her behalf, but she just sounded sad, not bitter.

“I didn’t know what to do. Richard’s been on me to sell since your dad died. When he offered a short-term loan, I thought it was my way out. I never thought it would lead to this…” She trailed off.

“What were the terms of the agreement?”

“That if I couldn’t repay the loan in six months the loan would convert to his down payment for ownership. At the time I thought, six months—no problem. Things have picked up over the summer, but not fast enough.”

“So, if we don’t pay in full by the end of this month, he owns Torte? That can’t be right.”

“I’m afraid it is.” She pulled a piece of paper from her purse. “Look at this. I’ve been carrying it around with me for the last month, trying to figure any way out.”

She passed the contract to me. I scanned it. Classic Richard Lord; he’d found a way to scam Mom at her worst hour.

“Did you talk to a lawyer? Has anyone else reviewed this?”

Mom nodded. “I did, but it was too late. I’d already signed it. The contract is binding.”

I’ve never believed in the old saying, “Everything happens for a reason,” but at that moment I wondered if I’d been wrong. Maybe coming home to Torte, to help Mom, was exactly where I was meant to be.