Meet Your Baker (6 page)

Seriously?

“You’re going to need to talk to Detective Curtis before you do anything,” I said.

She reached down and thrust a black backpack on the table. It was stuffed with psychology books, crumpled paper, notebooks and pens. She dug through it and finally pulled out a crushed pack of mint gum.

Tearing off silver wrappers, she stuffed four pieces in her mouth.

Noticing my stare, she offered me the pack. “Want some?”

I shook my head and pointed to the books. “Are you studying psychology?”

She shoved the gum in the backpack. “I guess.”

It was hard to imagine how this withdrawn girl was interested in psychology and why Mom had hired her.

My mind flashed to her arguing with the kid in black at the counter yesterday.

“Hey, who was the guy you were talking to yesterday?”

“Sterling?”

I shrugged. “The skater kid?”

“Yeah, that’s Sterling.”

“Was he upset about something?”

“You mean, like his coffee?” She looked confused.

“No, like he was angry about something.”

She stood and slung her pack over her shoulder. “Nah, he was just looking for someone.”

I watched her trudge to the counter where the Professor and Mom stood huddled. What was her story? What were she and Sterling really fighting about? Could it have something to do with Nancy’s murder? Maybe I was overreacting, but everything I’d seen in the last twenty-four hours started to look suspicious.

Chapter Eight

The next hour dragged. Thomas and the Professor marked the crime scene, took photos, and conferred with the EMS team; the coroner finished examining Nancy’s body and loaded it onto the ambulance for transport to the morgue.

Thomas dusted every doorknob, every inch of counter space and table. The Professor followed him around Torte, his glasses resting on the tip of his nose. “A little too much there, son,” he said, as Thomas brushed powder on the bathroom door. “Remember, a little goes a long way with this stuff.”

It was a relief to have her body gone, but Torte was far from back to normal. I felt a compulsive need to bake, or call Carlos. Neither was a possibility.

I replayed my last moments on the ship while Thomas and the Professor probed the bakeshop for clues. If anyone had witnessed my departure that day they wouldn’t have paid much attention. There wasn’t anything to see. That was the worst part. Maybe if I’d left in a violent storm of emotion, hurling insults at Carlos and causing passengers to peer from their staterooms to see what all the commotion was about, I could carry that with me.

Instead, our parting was quietly sad. Carlos found me in our room folding my clothes in neat piles on the bed. He didn’t bother to ask what I was doing. He knew. I could feel him watching me with his back pressed against the cabin door. I could hear his steady breathing and smell the remnants of the evening’s meal on his chef’s coat.

I packed my bags in silence, feeling grateful for my early years in the theater where I’d learn to call up my emotions on cue. If Lance had seen my performance that day, I’m sure he’d ramp up the pressure for me to join the company. Each movement I made was intentional, from holding my spine upright to gracefully bending over as I removed every pair of shoes from the bottom shelf of our closet.

Honing my physical response to Carlos’s betrayal allowed me a sliver of control. I brushed past him on my way out the door. He hung his head and stepped aside. I’d like to believe that he watched me go, but I’m not sure. I never looked back.

*   *   *

Andy’s arrival shortly after eight pulled me from the loop running through my head. The lights from the ambulance were gone, but the front door was crossed with yellow tape. Andy ducked under it and came in anyway.

“What’s going on, boss?” Andy’s eyes darted around the room. “Kitchen fire?”

“Worse. Murder.”

He laughed. “I heard you used to be an actress back in the day. Good one. They could have used you at the Midnight Club last night.”

I gave him a stern look. “I’m not acting. Nancy Hudson was killed here.”

Andy removed his baseball hat and wiped his brow. “Whoa. That’s intense.”

“Detective Curtis needs to talk to you. He’s in the office. Did anything happen last night? When I got here this morning the door was unlocked. You closed up, right?”

He pulled his hat back over his eyes and looked at his feet. “Yeah, yeah, everything was fine. Normal.”

His cheeks warmed with color.

“You’re sure?” I pushed.

“Nope, nothing.” He tugged off the cap and mopped his brow.

“Andy, is there something you’re not telling me?”

He shuffled his feet and adjusted his hat. “Well, there was one thing.”

“Go on,” I urged him.

“The crowd was pretty big. I think about twenty-five people. It’s one of the biggest I’ve had on my own. I was running the machine most of the night. It was the usual crew—Lance, Caroline. Near the end Nancy showed up with her boyfriend, Richard Lord. Man, I don’t like that guy.”

He pointed to the booth by the window. “Anyway, Nancy made a big scene right over there. I think she was trashed. Richard had to keep holding her steady and she was slurring her words and stuff. I was slammed with making drinks, so I couldn’t hear everything she said, but she went after Caroline. Told her that her acting days were over and she should start packing. Then she started in on Lance. Something about revenue being down.”

Andy gestured at the Professor, who’d emerged from the office. “I guess I better go talk to Detective Curtis, huh, boss?” He flipped his baseball cap backward.

Thomas interrupted my thoughts. “Got a minute?”

“I can’t bake anytime soon, right?” The kitchen was roped off with crime scene tape. Fingerprint dust was scattered over the counter and island. I could see markers around the room flagging evidence and a white chalk outline where Nancy’s body had been. The sight of the red pool on the floor made me sway.

“Let’s chat outside.” Thomas grabbed my arm.

*   *   *

The temperature had risen significantly since my morning stroll, which now seemed like days ago. Now, the sun warmed the pavement and glittered on the storefronts lining Main Street. It was going to be a scorcher.

Tourists were already starting to fill the sidewalk. July is the height of the OSF season and brings throngs of visitors from all over the globe to our quaint town.

It was disorienting to see passersby enjoying the morning as if nothing sinister had just occurred. I adjusted my eyes to the bright sun. A group of twenty-somethings dressed like pirates busked for change on the corner near the tourist information booth. I watched as a family gathered in front of the bubbling fountains that sit in the center of the plaza on Main Street.

Visitors are in for a shock when drinking from the Lithia fountains. The water tastes like sulfur. That’s because it’s pumped from naturally occurring mineral springs. I’m a big fan of the water that’s touted for its incredible health benefits, but it’s definitely an acquired taste.

I had to stifle a giggle as I watched one of the kids spit out the water and shout, “Gross, it tastes like rotten eggs.”

“Newbies.” Thomas laughed.

Across the street I could see a line waiting for breakfast in front of the Merry Windsor Inn. It didn’t look like his remodeling efforts were dissuading customers. Richard must be loving the fact that Torte was temporarily out of business. Maybe he killed Nancy at Torte to try to boost his own sales.

Fortunately, the novelty of police activity must have worn off. The crowd that had been outside Torte earlier had dispersed. A few stragglers hovered close by, but mainly people peered in the windows as they walked by.

“Do you want to change?” Thomas asked. “I could walk you to your apartment. Or we can head over to my office?”

The police station, with its blue awning was just three doors down. Pretty much anything you needed could be found in the few-block radius that comprised downtown. That’s one of the things that makes living in Ashland so unique. Downtown is its own little oasis that’s surrounded by fertile orchards, mountain trails, gardens, parks, vineyards, clear lakes, and raging rivers.

My jeans looked much worse in the daylight. Stained and plastered to my legs as they were, I’m sure I looked like I was the murder victim, or worse, the murderer.

“I’d love to change.”

We walked in silence past Shakespeare’s Pen, the Trickster (a novelty shop), the police station with its blue awnings, and A Rose by Any Other Name (Thomas’s family flower shop) until we arrived at the outdoor store. Thomas greeted people on the street. I tried to avoid their stares. I was fairly sure they were staring at my appearance, but there was an equally likely chance they were whispering about my return.

Once inside my apartment, Thomas flopped onto the brown leather couch that came with the furnished space. “You go clean up. I’ll wait.”

“I was going to suggest you make yourself comfortable, but it doesn’t look like I need to.”

Thomas picked up a cooking magazine from my coffee table. “Not at all, I’ll drool over this and flag what you should make next.” He kicked his feet up on the armrest and made a big production of flipping through the pages.

I rolled my eyes and headed for the bathroom.

Thomas easily resumed our old banter. I guess I did too, but I assumed he wanted to talk about Nancy’s murder. I knew when I took off after graduation that I had left many things in Ashland unfinished. Thomas was one of them.

In the bathroom, I peeled off my jeans. They were destined for the garbage. No amount of stain remover would be able to wash away the memory of this morning.

I turned the shower on as hot as my skin would allow without scalding. The blistering water burned my skin as I scrubbed every inch of exposed flesh. It felt like heaven. After I’d turned an alarming shade of red and was convinced I’d washed off the top layer of my skin, I pulled on another pair of jeans and Carlos’s sweatshirt.

Should I call him? He’d want to know.

No, Jules, focus.

Returning to the living room, I found Thomas with two plates of scrambled eggs and cups of coffee resting in front of him.

“Where’d you get this?” I asked, sitting next to him on the couch.

“Your kitchen.” He grinned. “Don’t think I can’t make a mean egg.”

“When did you learn to cook?” I ran my fingers through my wet hair.

“Oh, I’ve learned a lot while you’ve been away.” He forced a plate into my hands. “Eat. And be prepared to be blown away by my culinary skill.”

I laughed. “Thanks.” I stabbed the eggs with a fork and took a huge bite. “Until this moment, I didn’t even realize I was hungry.”

“Stress will do that to you.” He offered me the coffee. “More Joe?”

“I’m good. Any more coffee right now and I’ll start convulsing.”

He pretended to shake. “Can’t have you seizing on me. I think you’ve had enough of a welcome home already.”

“I’m not home. I’m just here for a couple weeks.”

He didn’t look convinced.

The empty apartment should be evidence of that fact. Stacked in the corner by the door were boxes of outdoor climbing gear, energy bars, and hiking guides. Elevation, the outdoor store below us, had used the apartment for storage. I could hear the sound of customers and ringing cash registers rising through the floor.

I took another bite of eggs. “These are great, by the way. What did you put in them, oregano?”

Thomas put his finger to his lips. “Shhh. You of all people should know that a chef never shares his secrets.”

He set his plate on the coffee table. “You look better with a shower and some food in you. Your color’s coming back.”

“Was I that bad?”

“Worse. It’s okay. I see it all the time.”

“You see a lot of murder in Ashland?”

“More than you’d think.”

I polished off the eggs and set my plate next to his. “So, what did you want to talk to me about? I think I told the Professor everything I can remember. I’m already feeling kind of fuzzy. How is it, working with the Professor?”

Thomas reached for his laptop bag. He removed his iPad and clicked it on. “The Professor’s great. I mean, we have different styles, you know? I prefer this baby.” He held up the iPad. “The Professor’s more old school. He likes his notebook and pencil. Sometimes it’s hard to keep up with the Shakespeare quotes, but he’s solved every single case I’ve ever worked on with him.”

“Yeah, but come on, how many
murder
cases have you had to work on here?”

“Jules.” Thomas set the iPad on the coffee table and turned to face me. “I know you’re a dreamer at heart, but Ashland is not the sweet town you like to believe it is.”

I started to interrupt him, but he continued.

“Hold on, I’m not saying it isn’t a great place to live. Why do you think I haven’t left? But there’s a dark side to Ashland too. Remember, we’re responsible for the entire county, not just downtown.”

I wrinkled my brow.

“Don’t give me that look. It’s true.”

“Speaking of the dark side of Ashland, shouldn’t you be back at the bakeshop?” I asked.

He checked his watch. “I should, in fact. It’s not like what you see on TV. We’re stretched pretty thin.”

“So, what did you want to talk to me about?”

Thomas grabbed the iPad again and opened a document. “The Professor is pretty sure whoever killed Nancy is someone we know. It doesn’t look like a premeditated scene. More like a fight gone wrong. Could have even been that whoever killed her hit her on the head with more force than they intended and fled in a panic.”

“That’s what Mom said.”

Thomas continued. “Someone may be spooked, or may not even realize she’s dead. The Professor is hoping you and your mom can act as our eyes and ears inside Torte for the next few days.”

“What do you mean? I don’t know anything about solving a murder. I’m a pastry chef, remember?”

“Feeling a little nervous that my soggy eggs might be competition for your culinary skills?” He stabbed a chunk of egg on his plate and swallowed it for effect. “No, seriously, I’m not asking you to solve anything. That’s our job. Well, more like the job of evidence. DNA and fingerprints don’t lie. We’ll catch whoever did this, but this is a small community, and talk is going to spread quickly.”