Nothing Bundt Trouble

by Ellie Alexander

  “See what I mean? Your face says it all, William. I’m in over my head. How am I going to pull this off?”

  “What’s your vision for the kitchen?” I asked, knowing that even if his response was to merely make it “functional” it would take a nothing short of a miracle to pull off.

  Stewart bent over and picked up a piece of cracked blue tile. He pounded it on the stainless steel counter top. It shattered. “Not this. We haven’t been able to get the city inspector to sign off, so don’t have permits to continue the next phase of electrical. I can’t have my guys do any of the tile work until the inspection is done, so the kitchen is entirely on hold. There’s no way this will be ready by opening. You know the saying ‘Break a leg’?”

  I nodded.

  “Yeah, well if we try to open the kitchen, we will literally be breaking legs.” He dug his teeth into his bottom lip. “I’m trying to keep my chin up. I keep reminding myself that we bought this old church because of its intimacy. There’s not going to be a bad seat in the house. It’s going to be such a unique experience. 140 seats. 14 actors on that tiny stage.” He broke into a brief tap dance. “You’re going to be able to see them spit. There’s no other theater like it in the valley, and we’re going to serve cocktails, so if all else fails, I say let’s just get everyone drunk.”

  “How can I help?” I wanted to stay positive for Stewart, but the reality of taking on a project like this was not feasible.

  “Have you met the chef I hired, Ronald?” He shouted over the sound of whirling drill bits and hammering.

  “I don’t believe I know him.” My eyes traveled to what appeared to be black mold on the ceiling. This kitchen was in no condition to open before the show.

  “He’s new to town. He worked at Rumors as a line cook and is good friends with Pat, the owner. You must know him, right? Everyone in Ashland knows Pat.”

  “We’ve met at a couple of chamber events, but I don’t know him well.”

  Stewart swept the broken pieces of tile onto the floor and moved toward a door with a sign that read: NO ENTRY. He twisted the handle and motioned me with his index finger. I came closer to see a steep cement staircase with a railing that looked like Juliet’s kindergarten class had secured it to the wall. The single light bulb meant to light the staircase was burnt out, and the base of the stairs had huge chunks of cement missing. “This emergency exit connects downstairs to Rumors. Ronald is working with Pat on a deal to allow us to use their kitchen to at least provide some appetizers. We won’t serve during the show—to preserve the integrity for the actors. Appetizers before curtain. Dessert at intermission. That’s the vision. Ronald is pushing hard to get enough kitchen time to do dinner service, but it’s not in the cards. Rumors is busy and they don’t want to take a hit. It’s nice of Pat to be willing to work with us, but I’ve told Ronald to stop bugging him about more stove time and start working on a new appetizer menu. The man is exasperating. He wants to serve steak and baked potatoes.” Stewart threw his hands up in disgust. “How? How would we do that, William? Look at this place. I told him he has until tonight to come up with a modified menu or I’ll find someone else.”

  “Is that where I come in?” I tried to imagine myself sharing kitchen space with multiple chefs and navigating the deadly stairway between the jazz club and theater every night. That thought alone had me wanting to sprint to the exit, not to mention the awkwardness of potentially putting Ronald out of a job. I had been under the impression that Stewart wanted some temporary help with dessert while getting the final touches done on the new dinner theater, not a new full-time chef.

  He must have sensed my trepidation. “No. Nothing that involved. What I’m hoping is that you and Helen can create a simple dessert menu. Maybe two or three choices. You can prepare everything at the bakery and then bring them here the night of the show.”

  I thought through logistics. “How would we plate everything and get it out to the tables?”

  Stewart snapped like he was keeping time to music I couldn’t hear. “I have a plan for that. We might not have the permits to finish the kitchen and get it functioning yet, but I can have my crew get it cleaned and patched up enough. If you can bring the desserts up in boxes, we can plate them in here.”

  I hesitated. “Here?”

  Before I had a chance to answer, Ronald stomped into the kitchen from downstairs. His heavy combat boots thudded with each step. He looked like he belonged on the set of M*A*S*H* with his camouflaged chef’s coat and dog tags hanging on a chain around his neck. “What’s this all about, Stew? I heard a rumor you’re trying to replace me.” He locked his dark eyes on me.

  I was going to assure him that I had no intention of taking over the disastrous kitchen when Chuck Faraday appeared behind him in the damp stairwell. Had they been at Rumors together?

  Chuck’s eyes were bloodshot. There was a slight slur to his words as he spoke. It made me wonder if he was on something. “If you want my advice, I say hire Will and cut this dirt bag loose.”

  Ronald lunged at Chuck. Stewart stepped in between them to break up the fight.

  I watched as both men tried to get out of Stewart’s grasp. There had been a number of rumors around town about some of the nightclubs and chefs having a coke problem. I didn’t run in those circles, so couldn’t attest to whether or not there was any truth to the rumors. Doug had once told me to pay attention to how quickly bartenders at some of the clubs would serve drinks or why there were so many hundred-dollar bills floating around town. Was Chuck on something?

  If this was indicative of how the Cabaret was being run—I was making a break for it. No amount of extra money was worth getting myself mixed up with this motley crew.

  Chapter Six

  “Jules, Jules.” Sterling’s voice brought me back to the present.

  The Professor caught my eye from across the table as if acknowledging that he too had been caught up in his recollections of the past.

  I blinked twice, flipped the journal shut, and turned to Sterling, who stood balancing a tray of pan pizzas and salads on one arm. “Sorry, what’s up?”

  His astute eyes transferred from me to the Professor. “Your mom asked me to bring you two some lunch.” He set a tray with pan pizzas and chopped salads on the table. “She wanted me to tell you that she took off with her friends and she’ll call you when she’s done,” he said to the Professor.

  “Many thanks.” The Professor smiled.

  “I brought you a sample of the cauliflower crust too. Marty and I feel pretty good about it, but we’d like your opinion.” Sterling shifted the empty tray into his other arm and brushed a lock of hair from his eye. “Need anything else?”

  “No, we’re fine.” The fragrant aroma of the wood-fired pizzas brought me into my body. I sat up. “How’s everything going in the kitchen?” I felt terrible for abandoning my staff, and yet I knew that there was no way I was going to stop my conversation with the Professor.

  “We’re good.” Sterling tucked the dish towel into his apron. “Everything’s under control. No worries.”

  I shot him a grateful smile as he walked away. “So did my dad end up taking the job at the Cabaret?” I asked the Professor, helping myself to a taste of Sterling’s cauliflower crust. He had topped it with pesto, Parmesan, and fresh basil and tomatoes. The crust had a nice crunch and a delicate almost buttery finish. I made a mental note to give him my approval later. Then I reached for a slice of barbecue chicken pizza.

  “He did.” The Professor reached for a napkin and unfolded it on his lap. “He and your mother came to an agreement with Stewart that they would provide desserts for opening week as a test. William was smart enough to know that Stewart’s goal of having the kitchen open anytime soon was lofty at best. He and your mom figured that they could handle a week. If it turned out to be too much work or too much drama, they would gracefully bow out. They didn’t want to be locked into a contract with Cabaret until they had a better sense of whether it was even doable.”<
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  I bit into my slice of deep-dish pizza. How long had the Professor and I been chatting? And how had Mom known to send up lunch?

  The Professor placed his folded napkin next to his plate and stood up. “Would you like a glass of water?”

  “Sure, thanks.” I realized that during the time I’d been listening to his story I had managed to drain my pistachio rose latte.

  I watched as the Professor filled two water glasses. Andy and Sequoia were managing the line of customers waiting for coffee drinks and Rosa was ringing up orders at the pastry counter. It appeared as if my staff had everything under control. That was a relief.

  When the Professor returned with our water, he paused and held my gaze for a moment. “Shall we continue? I don’t want to keep you from your work.”

  “No, please. I won’t be able to concentrate on pastries until we finish.”

  “Very well, then.” The Professor picked at his slice of pizza while he leafed through the journal. “Like Will says here, opening night was the talk of Ashland. Everyone was invited to the Cabaret and everyone came. It was a great night until things took a deadly turn.”

  “Helen, the babysitter is here,” I called from the bottom of the staircase.

  “Coming, Will. Give me two minutes.”

  I opened the door to welcome our neighbors’ daughter who had arrived to babysit Juliet. Juliet beat me to it. She scooted around me and ran to the door.

  “Guess what?” she said to the sitter. “We get to make stove-top popcorn and Mommy said we can have ice cream after dinner. And there’s an Alvin and the Chipmunks special on TV tonight.”

  I loved that Juliet was so enthusiastic. Some of our friend’s kids threw tantrums when they had babysitters. Not Juliet. She adored having older teenager girls who would paint her nails neon pink and dance to UB40 in our living room. They were off to the kitchen in a flash without so much as a hug goodbye or a backward glance.

  Helen descended the staircase wearing a flowing cream skirt and matching sweater. She was a vision. Her hair reminded me of spun honey. It caught the light, making her appear to have a halo. “You look gorgeous.” I held out my hand.

  “You look quite dashing yourself, William Capshaw. It’s not often you wear a suit.” She squeezed my hand. “Navy blue is your color. I’d forgotten you still had that suit.”

  “Not bad, eh?” I pressed my hands on my navy blazer. It had been a college graduation present from my parents.

  We pulled Juliet away from the stove-top popcorn long enough to give her a kiss and say good night and left for the Cabaret. I had delivered boxes of pastries earlier in the day. Helen quizzed me on the ride. “Did you remember to bring aprons?”

  “Yes, dear.” I turned the headlights on. March had roared in like a lion. The first two weeks of the month had been a deluge of thunderstorms and cold rain. As we neared the ides of March it was as if the weather gods had opened up the skies above. I wondered if it was a cruel trick. We’d been in a stretch of long, warm sunny afternoons that had begun to linger into the evening. Dusk had just started to creep in as we drove downtown.

  “What about the extra bags of frosting and my piping tools just in case I need to touch anything up?” Helen asked.

  “I got everything. I promise. Worst-case scenario, I’ll run down to Torte if we need anything.” We were scheduled to arrive an hour before the show started to plate the desserts. Stewart had recruited a small army of community volunteers who would serve as ushers and waitstaff for the theater. It was a smart business model. In exchange for a complimentary ticket and dessert, the volunteers would be responsible for table service and post-show clean up. Once Helen and I oversaw dessert prep, Stewart had reserved us front-row seats for the Rogue Valley premier of Dames at Sea.

  I had always been superstitious. It seemed like it should be a relatively easy evening, but then again, the best laid plans could go haywire and unless things had changed dramatically since earlier in the day, I had a bad feeling that tonight’s show might be less than harmonic.

  When we arrived at the old church, it was a mob scene. It didn’t look much improved from when I had first met Stewart to discuss the possibility of Torte providing desserts.

  “William, did we get the wrong date?” Helen whispered. “The theater can’t be opening tonight.” She pointed to the tiered tables. “Half of the tables don’t even have tops.”

  “I know.” I watched crews heave tabletops into place and screw them together as if a hurricane was impending.

  “This is chaos.” Helen looked worried. Helen rarely looked worried. At least not outwardly so. It took a lot to rattle my wife.

  Shelly Howell, the artistic director, stood at the base of the stage shouting out commands to the work crew in one direction and actors in the other. She was a striking woman with angular features and a towering presence. She must have been at least six feet tall, but she appeared even taller in her black high heels and sweeping purple cape.

  The cast huddled onstage in full makeup and sailor suit costumes. They reminded me of sacrificial lambs awaiting slaughter. No one spoke. They simply stood shoulder to shoulder onstage, staring out into the theater as if they’d forgotten their lines. I’d been involved in enough small productions to know this was odd behavior for a cast before opening curtain. Why weren’t they going over last-minute blocking or warming up their vocal cords?

  “Chuck! Chuck? Where are you?” Shelly’s shrill voice cut through the silence. “Chuck Faraday, I need you onstage now! Everyone’s waiting for you.”

  I followed one of the sailor’s eyes to stage left where Chuck was nuzzling a scantily clad woman.

  Shelly yanked a clipboard from a stagehand and slammed it on a nearby table. “Chuck! Now!”

  Chuck was deep in conversation with the woman. He tried to kiss her again, but the woman pulled back and slapped him on the cheek with such force that he stumbled into a half-assembled table.

  “Is that Jeri?” Helen asked. The surprise in her voice mimicked mine. Jeri Heyward was the membership director at the Festival and at least ten if not fifteen years our senior. She and Chuck were an unlikely couple.

  “Chuck!” Shelly’s shrill voice cut through the sound of hammers and drills. “Chuck Faraday—center stage now!”

  Her screams forced Chuck into action. He had moved closer to Jeri and reached for her arm. She flung his hand away from her chest and shot him a stare that would make even the lightest soufflé sink, pivoted, and stalked away. Chuck blew her a kiss behind her back. Then he followed Shelly’s orders and joined the rest of the cast. It was like he had flipped a switch. The next thing I knew the cast kicked off a tap-dance number.

  “What have we gotten ourselves into?” Helen moved closer to me to avoid being trampled by a stagehand wheeling in what appeared to be crates of champagne.

  “My thoughts exactly.” I shielded her from a two-man crew trying to lift another tabletop into place.

  Shelly headed toward the balcony, calling Stewart’s name.

  “Shall we divide and conquer?” I asked Helen. “You head to the kitchen and I’ll follow after Shelly to see if I can have a quick word with Stewart.” What I didn’t tell Helen was my intention of quitting this side gig before it even started.

  “It’s a plan.” Helen followed the champagne delivery, while I navigated the maze of half-constructed tables.

  Upstairs the mood was equally disorganized. At least all of the balcony tables appeared to be finished. Volunteer ushers were unpacking boxes of dishes, silverware, and napkins and were racing around like Juliet and her friends during outdoor recess trying to get each table set. Shelly had gotten distracted with her search for Stewart by the lighting crew who were having issues with the wiring in the sound and lighting booth.

  “Can anything else go wrong tonight?” Shelly wailed. She reminded me of one of the witches in The Wizard of Oz with her nasal tone and long royal cape. Her bleached hair had been crimped, tousled, and sprayed with a can of Aq
ua Net. Not a strand moved as she spoke.

  I knew that Stewart and Shelly’s office was behind the director’s box, so I headed that way. When I knocked on the door it swung open. Stewart and a short gentleman wearing a sport coat two sizes too big stood with their backs to me. I recognized the other man—it was Pat, the owner of Rumors. He was one of the founding members of what we referred to as Ashland’s “old boys club.” Pat owned a number of businesses in the plaza. He had served as president of the chamber and was on the city council. I had never had any issues with him, but Helen wasn’t a fan. Understandably so. Pat’s views on women in business were dated.

  “Listen, Stew, the deal is off. Faraday has to go. That’s the deal. Faraday is gone—got it. I want him destroyed. If you don’t do it, I will.”

  I cleared my throat to announce my presence. Both men turned around.

  “Oh William, great to see you. So glad you’re with us tonight. It’s electric out there, isn’t it? I love the pre-opening energy in the theater. I’ve been missing this.” Stewart seemed relieved to see me. He stood and twisted a thin black scarf around his neck.

  He walked over to shake my hand. “Pat, you know William Capshaw, right? He and his wife Helen opened that great bakery, Torte, on the plaza.”

  Pat attempted civility by extending his hand, but his focus remained on Stewart. “Nice to see you again. I hear good things about your little bakery.”

  Internally I flinched at the not-so-subtle dig at Torte, but I shook his hand.

  To me Stewart said, “As I told you, Will. Pat’s been kind enough to allow us to share Rumors’ kitchen space this week and I’m forever indebted to him, right, Pat?” Stewart bowed to Pat.

  “I’m serious about what I said, Stewart.” Pat gave me a curt nod and left without another word.

  “How’s everything downstairs for you?” Stewart pretended like nothing had happened. “Do you have everything you need? Tell the volunteers what needs to be done and put them to work. They have to earn their free tickets, if you know what I mean. Show them how to plate the desserts now and they’ll work on it during the first act. I reserved you and Helen the best table in the house, and Doug is going to join you. I figured you would want him at your table.”