“Well done, Juliet,” Lance said once we were out of earshot. “I’m sure they bought our story.”
“Yeah, right. They definitely did not believe a single word that came out of your mouth.”
“I beg to differ.” Lance scooted us to the side of the path as a biker wearing a black baseball cap approached. “They’re none the wiser.”
The biker swerved on the path, zigzagging from side to side.
Was the biker drunk?
Lance pushed me out of the way at the last minute into a patch of wild blackberry vines wrapped along a chain-link fence. Pain shot up my left arm.
The biker sped by so fast that I couldn’t even see the spokes on the bike’s tires. I could hear the biker’s heavy panting and feel a gust of wind from the wake.
“Hey, stop!” Lance tried to flag the biker down.
The biker didn’t stop. They pedaled faster.
I got to my feet. Thank goodness for the trench coat, I thought, yanking sharp blackberry vines from my arm.
We both stared down the path. The biker was almost to the intersection of the alleyway behind Cyclepath. I couldn’t be sure, but the biker’s build and height made me wonder if it was Sky. I squinted to try and get a better look, but the bike vanished into the darkness.
Chapter Eleven
I had barely recovered from the near miss with the first bike, when another one sped toward us. The biker’s single bright light created a halo on the path.
“Stop!” Lance called, waving his arms in the air.
This time the biker slowed their pace. They came to a halt two feet from us.
I was shocked to see it was Dean, our new milk vendor.
“Dean?” I could hear the questioning surprise in my voice.
“Oh, hey. Yeah, is that you Jules?” He rested one foot on the ground. I noticed that his delivery cart wasn’t attached to his bike tonight. His helmet light was so bright it blinded my eyes. Earlier he hadn’t worn a helmet.
I threw my hand over my forehead to shield the light.
“Sorry.” Dean got off his bike and adjusted his helmet light so it wasn’t directly in our faces. His chest heaved from exertion. He knelt over and grabbed his knees.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
Dean held up a finger. “Give me a sec. I—uh.” He sucked in air through his nose. “Just have to catch my breath.”
“Were you following that other bike?” Lance voiced what I had been thinking.
“What?” Dean forced the zipper of his reflective yellow jacket up and down. “What bike? I was finishing the last of my deliveries, and had some product that didn’t sell. I came down this way to give it away and am heading for my truck. Addie lets me park it behind the studio.”
He was finishing deliveries—without his cart? At this hour? That didn’t make sense, but I wasn’t going to accuse him of lying.
“I should keep moving. Have to get home to feed the cows. You know what they say: happy cows, happy customers.” With that, he stretched a leg over his bike, clamped his foot on the pedal, and rode off.
“It’s an odd hour for milk deliveries, isn’t it?” Lance noted as we took the pathway through Railroad Park and up to A Street.
“Exactly. We get our milk delivery first thing in the morning. I’ve never heard of an evening delivery, and did you notice that his cart wasn’t attached to his bike? He had to be lying. What if he was following after the biker who almost ran us over?” If my theory was correct and the first biker had been Sky, what could Dean want from him? Could it be connected to the Wizard’s murder or to Sky’s earlier accident?
“That’s the spirit.” Lance egged me on. “The question is why. Why would Dean be in the Railroad District at this late hour? I’m not a farming expert, but I have to image that his cows should already be fed and put to bed by now.” He stopped and chuckled. “Sorry for the rhythm. Sometimes I can’t help myself.”
“Ha!” I gave him a mock laugh. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions. Dean could have honestly been giving away unsold product, but it was strange that he didn’t have his cart and was out at this late hour.
Lance fanned his face. “Whew. My, what an aroma there is on this moon-drenched evening. Let’s play one of my favorite games. Skunk or pot?”
“Yeah. Dean smelled like pot earlier. Apparently his farm is next door to a hemp field.” An undeniable odor hung in the air. In recent years, southern Oregon’s enviable growing climate had been sought out by the burgeoning hemp and marijuana industries. There had been much discussion amongst the community on the pros and cons of farmland being bought up by out-of-state investors. One of the ongoing complaints was about the stench the fields generated. Recently a local elementary school neighboring a hemp field had to shut down because the fumes were making students and teachers sick.
“Do you think Dean could be involved? Admittedly, I haven’t spent much time around here, but it’s quite a remarkable coincidence that Dean and Sky—if that was Sky—would both be riding on the path at this time of night isn’t it?” I didn’t wait for him to answer. “Something feels really off.”
“Agreed. But what we’re missing is a connection.” Lance tapped his index finger on his lips. “What was Dean’s connection to the Wizard?”
“I’m not sure. I know they had a big argument over spilled milk—literally. Dean accused the Wizard of stealing his milk. He found a bunch of broken bottles scattered along the tracks and accused the Wizard and Sky of stealing from him. I can’t imagine that stealing a few bottles of milk would be motive for Dean to kill him.”
“Unlikely.” Lance agreed.
We made it back to the plaza in less than ten minutes. Lance walked me to the front of Torte, where a soft overnight light barely illuminated the inside of the cozy bakeshop. Next door, empty aluminum tins in front of A Rose by Any Other Name awaited a new day to be filled with beautiful blooms. Music pulsed at Puck’s Pub, and a handful of teenagers huddled on the brick benches in the center of the plaza.
I was about to call it a night when a tall, attractive man approached us. His bald ebony head reflected the glow of the streetlamp. He wore Southern Oregon Raiders gear from head to toe.
“Lance, how’s it going?” He greeted Lance with a one-armed hug.
“Arlo, nice to see you.” Lance’s voice sounded jittery. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Was it my imagination or was the ever-composed Lance flustered?
“I don’t think we’ve met.” Arlo extended a hand to me. “Arlo. I’m the interim managing director at OSF and part-time assistant softball coach at SOU.”
“Great to meet you.” I returned his handshake, which was firm and confident. “Welcome to Ashland.”
“Thanks. It’s a charmer.” His eyes drifted above us to the Black Sheep, a British-style pub with giant ornate oval windows and the Union Jack flying from the top of the roof. “I’ve never lived anywhere quite as charming and where I’ve felt welcomed from day one. I think I had five pies waiting for me on my front porch before I had even unpacked a single box.”
“That’s Ashland,” I said with a laugh. “Interim director. Does that mean your stay will be temporary?”
Arlo looked to Lance, who was fiddling with the top button on his trench coat. “For now. This is what I do. I go into theaters in transition and help with structural changes. As I’m sure you know, you have one of the best and most innovative artistic directors in the world, with Lance.”
Lance’s cheeks flamed with color. I’d never known him to blush at a compliment.
“My role will be to run the search for a permanent managing director, grow the board, and basically ensure that Lance is free to fully realize the grand visions he has not only for the company and patrons but for the community at large.”
“That sounds like a big role.”
Lance still hadn’t spoken.
“True, but it’s one that I’m excited about. The passion this community has for the arts is stunning. That’s on
e huge hurdle we won’t have to face. Often times, my first order of business is working on community buy-in, but that’s not going to the case here.” Arlo gave Lance a knowing smile. “Thanks in large part to this guy.”
“Uh—ah,” Lance sputtered to find the right words. “You’re too kind.”
Arlo had correctly assessed the festival’s role. Ashland and OSF were synonymous. Without the theater, Ashland would be a pretty little town tucked in the Siskiyou Mountains with beautiful vistas and picture-perfect hiking trails. The festival was the lifeblood of Ashland’s economy. And without that revenue, the thriving business community, abundant shops, restaurants, and bed and breakfasts would take a big hit if we lost thousands upon thousands of returning theatergoers each year.
“How do you and Lance know each other?” Arlo sounded genuinely interested. “And are you twinning?” He noted our matching trench coats.
“I run Torte.” I pointed to the bakeshop’s red-and-teal awning behind us. “Lance and I have been friends for years now.”
“Oh, Torte!” Arlo gave himself a playful smack on the forehead. “I should have made the connection. I’ve heard nothing but good things about your baking. Lance raves about you and your pastries. What do you call her, Lance? Your pastry muse?”
“Juliet is my pastry muse.” Lance tapped my chin. “But, don’t you agree that with these cheekbones she should grace the stage?”
Arlo leaned his head back and let out a deep laugh. “Given that death stare she’s shooting at you, I’m going to say that’s a hard no.”
“I think you and I are going to be great friends,” I said to Arlo.
“For sure, and I can’t wait to stop by to taste these famous pastries.” Arlo paused as a group of coaches wearing SOU softball gear rounded the corner. He gave them a wave and then turned his attention back to us. “Hey, a bunch of us are heading to Puck’s for beers. Do you guys want to join us? I’d guess there’s a great band playing tonight.”
I waited for Lance to say something, but he stood frozen.
“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll have to take a rain check.” I pointed to Torte. “Bakers’ hours means that I’m already up past my bedtime.”
Arlo grinned. “How about you, Lance? You up for a beer?”
Lance didn’t respond.
I nudged his waist.
“Sorry. Sorry. I was—uh—lost in thought for a moment.” He stumbled over his words. “Did you say a beer?”
Arlo nodded. “It’s me and the other coaches.”
“Excellent. A beer sounds absolutely divine.” Lance clapped.
Lance hated beer.
He kissed my cheeks. “Good night, darling. We’ll reconvene tomorrow?”
“Sounds good. Enjoy the evening.” I took off the trench coat and hat and handed them back to Lance, and headed south on Main Street. In the time I had known Lance, he had never mentioned much about his love life or lack thereof. We had commiserated on the fact that we were both hopeless romantics, destined to a life of longing. Had Arlo’s arrival changed that? If I didn’t know better, I would guess that Lance was smitten.
The happy thought fueled my drive home. When I entered the front door, the house smelled of lavender and roses. Pale pink rose petals lined the stairwell. A note rested on the banister that read FOLLOW THE ROSES.
I climbed the stairs. At the top, the trail of petals led to the bathroom, where Carlos had lit two dozen votive candles. A steaming bath with dainty petals awaited me, along with a hot mug of tea, a book, and a small vase of fresh cut roses.
“Julieta, you’re home.” Carlos appeared behind me. He wrapped his arms around my waist and kissed the base of my neck.
His lips on my skin sent a rush of emotion to my head. “This is beautiful. Thank you.”
“It is nothing. You deserve to be pampered. You need to relax.” He reached to the hook on the door and handed me a plush towel. “I do not want to see you for an hour. I will check on you to see if you need anything, but otherwise this time it is for you, mi querida.” With that he kissed me, then shut the door behind him.
The fragrant scent of roses mingled with the rosemary bath bomb Carlos had added to the warm water. Before I knew it, I slipped into a deep state of relaxation. When Carlos came to check on me an hour later, the bath had gone cold and I was fighting to keep my eyelids from closing.
“Come, come, let’s put you to bed.” He roused me from the tub.
I was too tired to protest. The minute my head hit the pillow I was out. I slept through the night, waking to the sound of my alarm sometime after four. Carlos snored lightly. I snuck from beneath the covers and tiptoed to the bathroom to get ready for the day. My morning routine usually involved a quick splash of cold water to the face, followed by plenty of moisturizer and a little lip gloss, then tying my hair into a ponytail. Baking before the sun was up didn’t require spending hours applying makeup, and for that I was thankful.
I tugged on a pair of jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and a fleece sweatshirt. I left Carlos sleeping and headed downstairs to the kitchen to brew a pot of strong coffee. Early mornings weren’t Carlos’s style. On the ship we had had opposite schedules. I would wake early with the purple light, baking in the quiet morning hours. Carlos would start his day sometime after noon and cook until the stars came out. We would often find a way to share a glass of wine or tropical cocktail between shifts and sneak away for a bite. There was no need for him to get up at this ungodly hour, so after I savored a cup of coffee, I left him a note and opted to walk to Torte.
As I stepped outside, a blustery wind made me suck in my breath. I tucked my hands in my pockets. Torte was a mile and a half away from my house. It was a steep descent down Mountain Avenue past sleepy Southern Oregon University and then a straight shot to the plaza. The only light to guide my way came from streetlamps every few hundred feet and the crescent moon overhead. Otherwise, Ashland was deep in slumber.
I passed a family of deer munching on low-lying tree branches. Their ears perked up as I walked by, but they continued eating. The breeze rattled the budding trees that lined Mountain Avenue. The silence made my breathing steady. I thought about the ugly turn of events, and was more determined than ever to find out who had killed the Wizard.
A car drove along Siskiyou Boulevard when I reached the bottom of the hill and turned toward town. It was a newspaper carrier, tossing bundled newspapers on front porches. Even Main Street was deserted at this hour. I used my walk to try to think through motives. If I could figure out why someone wanted the Wizard dead, that would likely lead to figuring out who had killed him.
Hunter certainly seemed capable of violence. As did his son, Lars. If Carlos hadn’t intervened, he might have hurt the Wizard. He was first on my list, especially because Laney was so certain he’d had it out for the Wizard. Then there was Sky. He appeared to be the Wizard’s steadfast ally, but why had he disappeared? Could he be in danger too, or had I misread their friendship?
What about Addie? She had been insistent that the Wizard was dangerous, and she was reluctant to help when Sky had crashed on his bike. I wasn’t sure about her. There was something I didn’t trust, but I couldn’t pinpoint what. Then there was Dean. What had he been doing on the bike path last night? He definitely hadn’t been delivering milk. So why lie to us?
I had gone over a mile. The top of Ashland’s only “skyscraper”—Ashland Springs Hotel—came into view. I walked past the three-story library, a record store, and my favorite dress boutique. The plaza was a hub for small family-owned businesses. It was no wonder Carlos had mentioned how much he enjoyed walking through town. The Tudor-inspired storefronts each with unique displays brought a smile to my face. I loved being part of such a creative community. At London Station dozens of colorful umbrellas dangled from the front windows with SPRING SHOWERS BRING MORE FLOWERS written in bright chalk. The wine bar featured a “locals only special” on Monday nights with a tasting flight, pasta and meatballs, Italian chopped salad, and tira
misu for twenty dollars. I’d have to remember that for a date night with Carlos.
Aside from Torte, there were only a couple restaurants that opened early for breakfast. It would be hours before the plaza was buzzing with life, and I liked it that way.
I continued down the hill and made it to the Merry Windsor. The Shakespearean-themed hotel owned by Richard Lord had an impressive façade with wrought-iron balconies, dark half timbers, and arched windows. The fake veneer didn’t fool me. I knew that the interior of the hotel was in dire need of updating. Richard liked to boast about being Ashland’s most authentically English hotel, but in reality the aging building was crumbling. Richard might outfit his staff in tights and tunics and display fake busts of the Bard throughout, but no amount of cheap Shakespearean reproductions could mask the smell of mildew or distract guests from the green shag carpet and cheap, stale-muffin breakfasts.
I noticed Dean’s bike parked in front of the hotel. The cart was attached this morning and packed with pretty glass milk jugs. I couldn’t believe that Richard would splurge for organic milk deliveries. His kitchen was much more inclined to shop in bulk at Costco.
As I stepped off the sidewalk to cross the street to Torte, Dean came out from the hotel lobby. “Jules, we meet again!” Two empty milk jugs clinked together when he placed them in a crate.
“You’re up bright and early,” I noted. “You were doing deliveries last night. I had no idea there was such a demand for milk.” I watched his response.
“Duty calls. You know how that goes. I’m up with the cows and on my route before the sun even thinks about making an appearance.” He made a checkmark on the clipboard attached to his cart.
“The Merry Windsor is a client?” What was Richard plotting?
Dean shuffled his feet. “I don’t know if I’m supposed to say anything, but Richard is branching out into ice cream, did you hear?”
Internally I fumed, but to Dean I plastered on a smile. “No, really?”
“I guess so.” He tapped his pencil on his clipboard. “Richard has big plans for the summer season. He’s going to have a stand out here on the porch for the spring and summer. They’re doing ice cream cones, shakes, that sort of thing.”
Chilled to the Cone Page 10
