Meet Your Baker (9 page)

Offering her more water, I sat next to her.

She gave me a grateful look and took a few more sips—slowly. Water rippled in the glass from her shaky hands.

Then she gazed at the caution tape lining the counter. “So it’s true?”

Mom and I shared a look.

“What’s the rumor spreading out there?” Mom asked.

Mia fanned herself with her hands. “That Nancy Hudson is dead. Is it true?” She looked from Mom to me and back again.

“I’m afraid so,” Mom replied.

I watched for Mia’s reaction. She didn’t react, at least not outwardly.

The girl was acting like she’d been stuck out on the Pacific Crest Trail for days without water. She took another gulp of water.

She tried to steady her hands as she placed the glass on the table. “That’s what I was afraid of.” She jumped to her feet. “I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got to find Detective Curtis.”

“Mia, slow down,” Mom said with a commanding calmness in her voice. “Sit down, I’ll call Detective Curtis and tell him you’re here.”

Mia’s voice squeaked. “No. Thanks for the water. I’ll find him myself. I don’t want to put you two in any danger.” She collected the notebook and paper under her arm.

She ran out, her hair falling completely from the bun as the door swung shut behind her.

“What was that all about?” I asked Mom.

“I’m not sure, but it’s looking more and more like Mia might have had something to do with Nancy’s death.”

We sat in silence for a moment.

“I can’t imagine Mia hurting Nancy on purpose,” I finally said aloud. “Maybe it was an accident. That would explain her strange behavior. But why would she be worried about putting us in danger? That doesn’t make any sense.”

Mom hung her head. “None of this does.” She picked up Mia’s empty glass and tapped it on the table. “It’s hard to believe something like this could happen in our town, let alone our shop. I have a feeling there’s a lot more to the story that we’re missing. But I don’t think we need to worry about any danger. Mia’s probably just spun up.”

I didn’t tell Mom that it wasn’t any potential danger I was worried about. What I
was
worried about was why she was so guarded about her cash flow—or lack thereof.

“Speaking of spun up, are you going to tell me what’s going on with you?” I gave her a serious look.

Even though I’d only been home for a few days, I could sense a shift in our relationship.

“Juliet, I told you, don’t worry about me. I’ve got it all handled.”

“But what? What do you have handled?” I watched her expression. “Is Torte in trouble?”

Mom stopped tapping the glass. I could see her make one last attempt to brush me off and then she dropped her face into her hands.

Her eyes welled with tears. “Maybe.”

Chapter Fourteen

A loud knock on the door startled both of us.

Not again. When was I ever going to get a moment alone with her?

Mom wiped a tear from her eye and hurried over to open it. The crime scene cleanup crew, in head-to-toe hazmat suits, marched in.

They went right to work, carrying in loads of industrial bleach, mops, and bags. They assured us that they’d call when we could return, and that Torte would be in tip-top shape in no time.

I followed Mom out the door. The streetlights cast a hazy glow in the purple, darkening sky. The sun wouldn’t fully set for another hour. Dusk, just like in the early morning before the sun is due to rise, captures me. There’s something about that in-between time, the shifting light, that’s so romantic.

Well, at least it used to be.

The Elizabethan stage should be buzzing now—I could picture Caroline’s throaty voice projecting her lines. Lance was probably schmoozing with donors over Manhattans. Even with Nancy’s murder the show would go on.

Mom had a faraway look in her eyes. As much as I wanted to know what was going on with Torte, she looked exhausted. Our conversation could wait. I wasn’t going anywhere—at least not yet.

“Why don’t you head home?” I suggested. “I’m right there.” I pointed to the outdoor store. “When the cleanup crew finishes, I’ll pop back in and lock up.”

Mom hesitated. “No, no, I’ll wait.”

“Seriously, I’m two minutes away—go home. I’ve got this.”

She looked unsure.

“I promise. Let’s reconvene early tomorrow and put this day behind us.”

“If you’re sure?” She stood on her toes to see what the cleanup crew was doing.

“I’m sure.” I nudged her in the direction of her car and gave her a quick hug. “See you in the morning.”

My childhood home, where Mom still lives, sits on the corner of Mountain Avenue and Ivy Lane in the wooded hills outside of town. The neighborhood, surrounded by hiking trails dense with native evergreen trees and exotic eucalyptus trees, is up the hill from Southern Oregon University. It’s a quick drive from downtown—you could even walk it if you were feeling adventurous.

Mom’s house has a red river rock driveway, a wood-burning fireplace, and a stunning view of the valley and hills to the east. I used to feed wild deer from our cedar deck and daydream about traveling to far-off corners of the world like Australia, where koala bears perched in eucalyptus trees.

I hadn’t realized until this moment just how long I’d been away—far away. Sailing for a European cruise line offered amazing perks, like ports of call in the Greek islands and meeting people from all over the world. But it also made it nearly impossible to come home.

You’re home now,
I thought as I made my way to my apartment. The air was heavy. A costume designer breezed past me, running up the hill with an armful of feather boas. A man on stilts, his entire body painted silver, practiced tricks on the corner.

Oh, Ashland, I’ve missed you.

I climbed the stairs to the apartment and pushed open the front window. I’m not sure why I bothered. The air outside was equally stifling.

I kicked off my shoes and flopped on the couch.

What a day. I checked my watch—9:15
P.M.
Had it really only been this morning that I’d discovered Nancy? It felt like I’d been in a weird waking daydream for days.

If only this was a dream. Never had I imagined that coming home to Ashland would put me in the middle of a murder.

I made myself a cup of tea and noticed my cell phone resting on the kitchen counter. My stomach lurched. In the flurry of activity, I’d forgotten all about Carlos’s voice mail.

I found my cell phone where I’d left it earlier.

His name on the screen made my heart rate quicken.

I pushed listen.

Carlos’s rich Latin accent, so comfortable and familiar, came through the phone.

“Julieta, mi querida.”

It meant “my dear” in Spanish and was one of the things that made me swoon over Carlos when I first met him.

Working in the ship’s galley was tight quarters. As executive chef, Carlos had seniority and a good ten years on me. He ran a tight kitchen, but had a playful streak. He took great pleasure in playing practical jokes, something the head pastry chef, my boss, didn’t take kindly to.

My fourth day on the job happened to fall on St. Patrick’s Day. Carlos put one of his sous-chefs up to tinting the sugar green. Pretty ironic for a Spaniard.

Carlos thrust the bag of green sugar in my hands, “Tell your boss,” he commanded with his thick accent. “There is something very wrong with these sugars.”

I could see a smile tug at his cheeks as I opened the bag and gasped at the sparkly green crystals.

“Oh no.” I put my hands over my mouth. “I can’t show him this. He’ll freak out.”

It hadn’t taken more than a few days to learn that my boss was jaded, angry, and often drunk. I knew without a doubt that he wouldn’t appreciate green sugar, regardless of the holiday.

Carlos flashed me a devilish smile. “Do not worry, or ‘freak out’ as you say,
mi querida,
it will be too funny.”

He nudged me and the shamrock-colored sugar in the direction of my boss. I’m sure my eyes must have been full of doubt, but Carlos assured me.

As expected, my boss found no humor in Carlos’s practical joke. No harm came to me. But this became our “thing.”

Carlos would arrange elaborate pranks and either make me the messenger or put me smack in the middle of his kitchen war. He had an elaborate hazing ritual worked out for the new guy. He’d often send newbies to the pantry in search of “clear” food coloring or a bacon stretcher (since the vendor sent us bacon that was too short).

My boss, who had an uncommonly large girth and a fondness for sweets, was steamed when Carlos had him taste-test a crème brûlée made with mayo. There was nothing he could do. Carlos had ultimate power. But ultimately it wasn’t about the power. It was about the food.

Carlos used to say, “Anger comes out in the food. You must prepare with love.” He understood that working in a professional kitchen can be intense and stressful. His pranks helped lighten the mood, and I’m convinced that spirit did infuse the food.

His voice continued on the message. “I am missing you,
mi querida
. My heart is, how you say—aching.”

Mine is too,
I said to the empty living room.

“I leave you as you like it, but I have to hear your voice.”

There was silence on the line. I thought maybe that was the end of the message, but the bar on the bottom of my phone showed it was only halfway through.

Miles and oceans of silence stretched along the voice mail line. I realized I was holding my breath.

Finally, Carlos’s voice quietly whispered, “I’m sorry.”

The voice mail ended. I clutched the phone and thought about punching delete. Instead, I clicked the phone off and threw it to the far end of the couch.

I half expected tears to begin to flow, but instead anger pulsed inside me. I forced myself to breathe deeply and leaned back on the couch.

He’d made his choice. Now I was making mine.

Chapter Fifteen

I must have fallen asleep. The next thing I knew, I was being startled awake by the ringing of my phone.

The cleaners had finished and were awaiting my approval at Torte. I laced my shoes and sprinted down the block. It was nearly eleven
P.M.
, and while darkness had fallen, heat lingered. It must have been eighty degrees. That’s okay—the heat matched my mood.

Torte gleamed with a golden light when I entered. The place absolutely shone. You’d never know that a little over an hour ago it was a crime scene.

I cut the cleaners a check, thanked them for their hard work, and sent them out the door.

My nap and frustration over Carlos’s message left me feeling more awake than I should have been at this hour. With the place to myself, I decided to use the opportunity to review the books and see what was really going on.

Before I set to work I fired up the espresso machine and poured myself a macchiato.

The small office off the kitchen barely fits an antique desk, filing cabinet, and printer. Mom painted the walls a creamy lemon yellow. It was a calming contrast from the bright and royal colors of the bakeshop.

I cleared off a stack of vendor receipts and file folders of recipes cluttering the desk to make room for my coffee.

Where to start? The cramped quarters smelled of musty paper. As I started to sort the stacks, my fingers wiped dust off every surface. I should have had the cleaners tackle this space too. Mom must not use it very often.

I spent the next twenty minutes sifting through stacks of receipts and paper. At one point I grabbed a dish towel from the kitchen and gave the desk and filing cabinet a good dusting.

No wonder Mom was worried about money. She couldn’t even know what was coming through the door with her vendor receipts in such disarray. It wasn’t like her to be this disorganized. Something was definitely wrong. Mom used to keep meticulous books when I was growing up. I remember every Friday evening after they closed the shop Dad would open a bottle of wine and experiment with a pasta recipe while Mom commandeered the island and went through each line item on their checkbook with her red pen.

From what I could decipher, it looked like she sourced the majority of Torte’s fresh ingredients from two local farms. But curiously, one of the farm bills was twice the cost of the other.

I found a yellow legal notepad in the top desk drawer and began making notes. First, question—why the discrepancy between costs?

That could be the first place she could start saving money.

Next, I began combing through sales receipts. It appeared that there was a decent flow of sales coming in. Each night before closing, Mom runs a tally of sales, puts the checks and cash in a leather bank-deposit envelope, and then runs a printout of credit card receipts.

The sales tally is used to check inventory. Ideally it also tracks what’s selling and not selling well. Not that there’s much at Torte that doesn’t sell.

As I began comparing the receipt total to the sales tally, something didn’t add up. Yesterday we sold all but five pastries (those were donated to the homeless shelter) but our actual cash in hand was short by twelve dollars.

I double-checked my math—twice.

Math doesn’t lie. Torte was short.

Could Andy or Stephanie be skimming from Torte? I thought through yesterday’s bustling day. It would have been easy enough for one of them to pocket a handful of cash when Mom and I were wrapped up with customers and baking.

The only thing I couldn’t figure out was that if one of them was stealing, why would they list the items on the sales tally? If Stephanie sold two slices of Danish for eight dollars she could have tucked the extra cash in her pocket and not marked the sale. That way no one would have ever known the books were short.

It didn’t make sense. Torte either had an inept criminal on its hands or something else was wrong with the books.

I made note of this on the notepad and took my empty coffee cup to the sink. Twelve dollars isn’t much, but if it was happening daily the losses could add up quickly.

One thing was for sure, Mom had a legitimate reason to be concerned. Between overpaying for products and being short on cash, Torte was stretching itself thin.