Meet Your Baker (8 page)

I let the information sink in.

“When did you leave?”

Andy thought for a minute. “Uh, I think it was around two-thirty, maybe two forty-five. The club was on fire with this new production they’re working on. The last few members didn’t leave until close to two
A.M.
After that I had to clean up.”

He stabbed a noodle with his fork. “Like I told your mom, I’m really sorry. I understand if you guys need to let me go. But, I promise it will never happen again. I know I shouldn’t have given Mia the key. My mom says I’m too nice. I love this job and it’s the only way I’m staying in school. Things have been tight on the farm for my folks lately.”

Mom reached over and patted his arm. “We’re not going to fire you, dear.”

“I agree,” I assured him, waving Mom off as she tried to refill my bowl. “Why would Mia kill Nancy though? It doesn’t make sense.”

“None at all.” Mom gathered the empty bowls together. “Detective Curtis is finishing up back there. Why don’t I go tell him you’re ready to talk to him; does that sound okay?”

Andy tucked his baseball cap on his head and nodded.

“Hey, one more thing, Andy. Are you and Mia dating?”

“No!” He contorted his youthful face. “Why would you think that?”

“Don’t worry about it. I didn’t think so.” I grabbed the leftover pasta and followed Mom to the kitchen. What a mess. Fingerprint powder, evidence markers, chalk, and jam still covered the floor and walls.

“Doug?” Mom called to the Professor. He removed his glasses and stepped carefully over to the counter where we stood. His feet were protected with light blue plastic booties, and were splattered with jam and blood.

“What can I do for you, lovely ladies?” The Professor’s hazel eyes rested on the pasta. “Is this the heavenly scent that’s been teasing my olfactory nerve?”

“Help yourself. I need to get you a bowl. Is it okay to grab another one?”

He stopped her. “I don’t want you to ruin your shoes. I’m already in the thick of it, as they say.”

I pulled Mom close as the Professor went to find a bowl. “Do you really think that Mia could have killed Nancy?”

Mom wiped a fleck of dust from the countertop. “It doesn’t seem possible, does it?”

I told her about my early morning run-in.

She rubbed her fingers together. “Did you know this stuff is sticky? I’ve never felt fingerprinting powder before.” Then she sighed. “There’s not much we can do at the moment.”

She scanned the kitchen where the Professor was digging through drawers in search of a fork. “I sure hope he figures this out soon. If not…” She trailed off.

“If not, what?”

“Nothing. I don’t want to lose customers, that’s all.”

“I know we want to reopen, but a day or two of lost profit shouldn’t be too much of a problem, right?”

Mom laughed halfheartedly. “Of course. You know me, I always worry.”

No she didn’t.

Chapter Twelve

The Professor returned with a bowl and fork. Mom scooped a heaping bowl of pasta for him and ushered him to the table where Andy waited to recap what he told us.

“You want an americano?” I asked, walking to the end of the counter and revving up the espresso machine. “I could use another shot.” Fortunately, the bulk of the crime scene was behind me in the kitchen and as long as I kept my focus forward I could pretend it was business as usual at Torte. Growing up, I took ballet and acting classes, both of which left a lasting influence on my posture. Carlos used to tease that I moved through the kitchen like a ballerina. Today, my posture felt rigid.

Mom folded napkins at the counter. “That’d be great,” she said halfheartedly. Her attention was focused outside.

I turned to see what she was looking at.

Richard Lord, dressed in wild red and orange plaid golf pants, a yellow collared T-shirt, and his clubs slung over his shoulder, was moving in our direction, a furious expression on his face.

“What do you think
he
wants?” Mom mumbled. I noticed her twist the napkin she was folding in a knot.

“Not sure, but it looks like we’re about to find out.” I pointed as Richard stormed across the street, angrily waving off a car that nearly ran into him. He pounded on the car’s hood and hurled his large body in our direction.

I flipped off the machine. Coffee could wait.

Richard burst through the door. He bellowed, “Someone better tell me what the hell is going on here!”

The Professor gave me a look, as if to say, “I’ve got this covered.” He slowly rose from the table and walked over to Richard.

He reached out his hand to help Richard with the golf clubs.

Richard threw his hand off. “Curtis, don’t touch me and keep your hands off my clubs.” He lunged toward Mom.

The Professor stepped in front of Richard. He commanded the space between them, instantly transforming from the introspective, thoughtful Professor into a serious, forceful presence. He didn’t put his hand to his hip holster as it seemed Thomas had a tendency to do. Did he even carry a gun? His commanding vibe drove Richard Lord to take a step back.

“Richard. Why don’t you come have a seat?” He motioned to the closest booth.

Richard clutched the strap on his golf bag. “I’m not moving until someone tells me what the hell is going on. I was out hitting a few balls this morning when I got a call from my front desk manager telling me my presence was needed over
here
.” The word “here” was laced with disdain.

I’m not a golfer, but I could tell his clubs were expensive. Not just because of their graphite shafts and custom leather covers, but because he held them to his body the way a new mother holds an infant.

The Professor held his stance and pointed to the booth. “Have a seat. Then we’ll talk. Or, if you prefer, I can take you over to my office.”

Richard made an irritated sound, cinched his golf bag tighter, and stalked to the booth. He placed his clubs on the floor, and held on to them with one hand.

Before attending to Richard, the Professor told Andy he could go. Andy looked equally relieved and terrified.

On his way out the door he whispered to Mom and me, so Richard couldn’t hear, “What do you think will happen to Mia?”

Mom gave him a half hug. “Don’t worry about it. Detective Curtis is one of the most intelligent men I know. He’ll take care of Mia. You go home and get some rest. Hopefully, we’ll be back to business tomorrow.”

Andy apologized again and hurried out the door.

The conversation between Richard Lord and the Professor didn’t appear to be going well. I tried to eavesdrop, but the Professor kept his voice low and appeared to be intent on taking thorough notes in his small notebook.

I could tell when the Professor had finally shared the news about Nancy, because Richard launched to his feet and began pacing back and forth in front of the booths.

“How? How?” he yelled. I’m sure the sound carried outside to the plaza. What I couldn’t decipher is whether Richard’s ruddy cheeks were leftover from last night’s imbibing, or whether he was really upset about Nancy.

The Professor motioned for him to sit down.

Richard ignored him and continued to pace. Something about his reaction seemed off to me. It looked like a staged response, not someone facing the shock of a dead lover.

“This is unacceptable!” Richard narrowed his eyes on the Professor. “You better figure out who did this, or heads will roll.”

With that, he grabbed his clubs and stormed out the door.

I expected him to elbow his way through the throng of tourists outside, but instead he stopped in front of Torte, reached into a pocket on his golf bag. He pulled out a cell phone and looked in both directions before making a call.

His eyes darted as his spoke, with one hand cupping the phone.

His paunch spilled from his collared shirt, which looked like it had been washed one too many times and shrunk around his belly. I couldn’t help but think he’d likely been sampling too many of the Merry Windsor’s dry, cardboard pastries. I know that’s not nice, but anyone who’s mean to Mom …

He turned his head over his shoulder and caught me staring at him. He gave me an accusatory look that made me feel like he’d just read my mind.

I pretended to start the espresso machine, watching him out of the corner of my eye. He finished his conversation and looked around suspiciously before pushing his way across the street and back to the inn.

Who did Richard need to call so urgently? And why did he look like he didn’t want anyone to hear whatever he said?

The Professor cleared his throat and made my thoughts return to the present. “Might I beg another cup of coffee from you, madam?” He bowed. “Your pasta was absolutely divine.”

I smiled and turned the machine on. “Thanks. You’re speaking my language when it comes to coffee. What’ll it be?”

“If it isn’t too much trouble, a latte would do the trick.” He studied me as I poured milk into a carafe and cranked the dial for steam higher. “You know, I don’t generally feel sorry for the bard. Shakespeare lived quite the charmed life, one might say, but for the fact that he never tasted this nectar of the gods.”

“What do you mean, he didn’t like coffee?”

“Coffee didn’t yet exist, then.”

“Really, I never knew that.”

“Alas, no, not in Shakespeare’s time. Neither coffee nor tea was introduced to England until after his death in 1616.”

I handed him a blue mug with our red Torte logo. “Well, thankfully we have both.”

He held the mug in a toast. “Ah, yes indeed. I see you’ve inherited your mother’s abilities,” he said as he took a sip of the creamy latte.

“Actually, I think my dad was the coffee connoisseur.” I surprised myself with my curt response. Where did that come from? I felt oddly unsure how to react to his interest in Mom.

The Professor rested his mug on the counter and clasped his hands together. “Of course. The talent in your family comes from both sides.”

I felt like I should apologize, but then Mom bustled up with a stack of napkins.

“What are you two chatting about?” She nudged the Professor in the arm.

“Ah, I was singing the praises of your talented daughter.”

Mom beamed.

The Professor took another sip of coffee. “You’ll both be glad to know that we have everything we need. You can begin cleaning and preparing to reopen.”

Mom instantly looked years younger.

He pulled a business card from a silver case in his pocket. “Call this company. They specialize in this kind of work.”

“You know me and my ammonia moments. I’ll break out the bleach and gloves.” She tucked her hair behind her ears. Emerald stud earrings sparkled on her lobes. “Actually it will feel good to do something.”

Mom equates cleaning with therapy. There’s something about scrubbing the toilets with toothbrushes and scouring the sinks that leads to a release of stress. Call it organized or OCD. I’ve always known her to keep a spotless house, but in times of crisis the place absolutely shines.

After Dad died, the hardwood floors gleamed so brightly you almost needed sunglasses inside and the entire house smelled like it had been dipped in lemon Pledge. Reflecting back on that time made me realize that while the house was always clean, that’s when Mom and I started this pattern of not coming clean with each other. We both clammed up a bit. I don’t think we did it on purpose. It was more a coping mechanism.

The Professor shook his head, “No, you can’t do this yourself. Call this crew. They get it done in an hour for you.”

Mom started to protest.

He pressed the card in my hand. “Call them, Juliet.”

“I will,” I promised, taking the card. “What about Mia? What’s going to happen to her?”

“‘Come what may come, time and the hour run through the roughest day.’” He savored the latte and paused thoughtfully. “I’d appreciate you both passing along anything you might hear.”

Mom nodded.

“Then I bid you adieu.” He gave another small bow, winked, and set his empty coffee mug on the counter. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow.” He let his gaze linger on Mom for a moment.

She shook her head and he made his exit.

What was that about?

Mom pressed the stack of napkins with her hand and glanced at the clock. “It’s late, honey. You go home. I’ll take care of the cleaning…” She trailed off.

“No way, Mom. We’re calling the cleaners. Cleaning up jam is one thing but neither of us should be mopping up blood.”

She turned and craned her neck over the counter. “It doesn’t look that bad. I’m sure I can do it.”

What was her deal?

I pulled the card from my pocket and punched in the number before she could say anything else.

“They’ll be here in an hour. Apparently we’re in the wrong business. It’ll be six hundred bucks.”

Mom swallowed hard. “Six hundred dollars?”

“Actually, that seems like a steal for, well, you know—that.” I tilted my head toward the kitchen.

“If you think so?” Mom sounded unsure.

“I know so.” I gave her a concerned look. “Mom, is there something you need to tell me about Torte’s financial situation?”

She looked at me carefully and drew in a deep breath.

At that moment, the door jingled and Mia raced in.

Chapter Thirteen

Mia sucked in air in quick gasps. “Is Detective Curtis still here? I really need to talk to him.”

“You just missed him,” I responded. “Do you want to come in?”

The door stood open with Mia halfway in, looking frantic. Her brow dripped with sweat and brown curls spilled from the bun on her head.

She adjusted the notebook and stacks of paper in her hands and wiped her forehead with the back of her arm. “Thanks.” She closed the door behind her and stepped inside. “It’s so hot out there.”

Mom poured a glass of water and motioned for Mia to join her at a table. “Have a seat. You look flushed.”

Mia gulped the entire glass of water. “I know, I’ve been running around all day.” She kept the papers and notebook clutched to her body.

Her hands trembled so violently I thought she might drop the glass.

I grabbed Mia’s empty glass and refilled it.