Nothing Bundt Trouble

by Ellie Alexander

  “Ladies, you’ve outdone yourselves.” I went to the sink to wash my hands.

  “You look better,” Helen noted. “Did you sleep?”

  “No.” If I was going to be successful in keep my investigating from my wife, I intended to keep the lies to a minimum. “I got some fresh air, had a coffee or two, and now I’m at your mercy. Put me to work.”

  Wendy grinned. She was our age with a young daughter, Amanda, who went to school with Juliet. The girls, like Helen and Wendy, had become fast friends. “I told Helen, I don’t think I can work here any longer. It’s too tempting. I’ve been nibbling on bites of everything all morning.” She dipped her pinky into a vat of buttercream to prove her point.

  “No, you can’t desert us.” Helen pretended to collapse. “Tell her, Will. She’ll get over the tasting, right? We did.”

  “’Tis true.” I folded my hands together in a meditation. “The siren song of pastry is difficult to resist, but rest assured her sweet, sweet, calls will be silenced after a few days, and the stomachache that comes with sampling.” I rested my arm next to a tray of mini lemon meringue pies. “As the Bard says, ‘The fiend is at mine elbow and tempts me.’”

  Helen and Wendy cracked up. I picked up a pot of coffee. “I’ll take over refill duty.” With that, I swept into the dining room. As usual there were a number of familiar faces in the room. Everyone was talking about the hit-and-run. I tried not to eavesdrop but couldn’t help getting drawn into the discussion when I stopped to top off coffees at one of the window booths.

  “William, you were at the Cabaret last night, weren’t you?” a woman asked. I looked up from the coffeepot to see Jeri Heyward, the membership director for the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. She was sitting with a friend, whom I didn’t recognize.

  “Good to see you, Jeri. Yes, I was there. You were too, right? I thought I saw you talking to Chuck.” I didn’t say anything about seeing her and Chuck locked in an embrace or the fact that she had subsequently slapped him.

  She didn’t respond to my question as she rifled through a stack of carbon-copy receipts in a file folder. “Sorry, this is such a mess. I’ve taken over your bakery with my donation forms.” She pushed the paper receipts toward the woman seated across from her. “Can you take these back to the office? We can continue our conversation there. I want a word with William.”

  The woman acquiesced to her request. Once she had left, Jeri pointed to the empty seat. “Sit, please.”

  Jeri was a commanding woman, not in size but in personality. She was short and petite with long, black feathered hair, styled like Joan Collins in Dynasty. The bulky shoulder pads in her gray suit jacket gave her an imposing stance.

  “How are things at the Festival?” I asked, sitting across from her and resting the nearly empty coffeepot on the table.

  “Don’t ask.”

  “Really? I thought I had read in the paper that ticket sales and patron donations were up this year?”

  “Not anymore thanks to Chuck Faraday.” She strummed her long, fake nails on the tabletop. They were painted bright neon orange.

  I wondered if she knew about Chuck’s accident. Then again, I didn’t know how she couldn’t. It was the only thing customers were talking about.

  “I can’t say I’m sorry he’s dead,” Jeri continued, answering my question for me. “He’s been poaching OSF’s best actors, actresses, and patrons. I had a meeting with our executive team last week to tell them they had better find a way to put a stop to whatever Chuck’s been up to at the Cabaret or else we might have to start cutting back shows and trimming staff.”

  This news shocked me. The long-running repertory theater had been gaining popularity and bringing in well-received talent and productions. I couldn’t fathom how the Cabaret would threaten that. If anything, having another theater in town would help strengthen Ashland’s artistic reputation.

  “There are ways to go about building reciprocal relationships and Chuck obviously did not understand the importance of that.” She tapped her fingernails on the tabletop.

  “What did you think of last night’s opening?” I asked. “The production was so different than anything the Festival is doing. They don’t seem competitive to me. If anything, they’re complimentary.”

  “I didn’t see the show. I refused. Imagine the message that would have sent. Seeing my face there would have been the same as giving that farce of a theater my blessing. I did stop by after the show to watch audience reaction on their way out and I have to say it wasn’t good. I heard many comments about how junior high the production felt.”

  That hadn’t been my experience, and I knew that Jeri was lying. Helen and I had both seen her fighting with Chuck before the show. “I could have sworn I saw you there.”

  Jeri twisted a fake gaudy gold ring on her pinky. “Well, yes. I mean it was my duty to get a read on how things went, but I wasn’t about to sit front and center and give that fake theater my stamp of approval. After the show I asked a few questions, that’s all. Rest assured, I didn’t overstep my bounds. I didn’t directly ask anyone their opinion.”

  Was she openly admitting to being at the scene of the crime? And why was she lying about being at the theater before curtain? I decided to test the waters. “Did you see the hit-and-run?”

  She lost her swagger. Her pinky ring dropped on the table and went spinning. “No. No. I wasn’t there.” She tried to grab the ring, but it fell to the floor.

  I reached under the table to retrieve it for her.

  “Thank you.” Her hand trembled as I placed the ring in it.

  “Was there something you wanted to ask me?”

  Jeri paused for a moment, appearing flustered. Billy Joel played on the speakers overhead. A couple customers lined up near the counter. I needed to get back to work.

  “As someone well versed in the theater, I wanted to get your honest opinion on the show, William. Don’t hold back. Tell me what you really thought.”

  “I enjoyed it. I thought it was quite fun and lively. Everyone around us seemed to share that sentiment.”

  Jeri’s hands squeezed into tight fists. “I see. Well, excellent. Good for you. I need to get back to my office. Paperwork calls.”

  She didn’t seem pleased with my response, but it was the truth. I made a mental note to share my conversation with Doug later.

  The next few hours passed quickly. We sold out of my handmade Ding Dongs, and Helen’s chicken-and-rice soup was a huge hit for lunch. Wendy prepped the Cabaret desserts, and I waited tables. It was a welcome distraction to steep pots of Earl Gray tea and wipe down tables.

  Our imported espresso machine arrived about an hour after we closed for the afternoon. We were worse than Juliet on Christmas morning as we watched the shiny stainless steel machine get unloaded from a truck and waited with eager anticipation for it to be installed. Helen snapped dozens of pictures while our coffee rep installed it on the far edge of the pastry counter. We had gone over multiple ideas of where to place the espresso machine and finally landed on what I hoped would be the perfect spot.

  One of our goals at the bakeshop was to build lasting relationships with our customers, and placing the espresso machine at the end of the counter would allow us to chat and maintain eye contact with people while pulling shots of strong Italian coffee.

  “You’ve gone through two rolls of film, Helen,” I said pouring a thick fragrant shot of espresso into a clear glass mug, while our coffee rep critiqued my technique.

  “It’s so exciting. I can’t believe we’re the first restaurant or bakery in the Rogue Valley to have a real espresso machine. Can you make a layered latte, like the ones we’ve seen in the coffee culture magazines?”

  Our rep and I practiced the technique of steaming milk and adding a generous layer of foam on the top of the coffee. Most of our customers were used to drinking Folgers at home. It would be interesting to see how our Italian-style line of new espresso drinks would be received. The latte looked sophisticated with
three unique layers and colors—dark espresso on the bottom, a layer of creamy milk in the middle, and two inches of foam on the top.

  “I don’t think we can drink it,” Helen said to Wendy. “It’s too pretty.”

  Specialty coffee would be a small part of our bakery offerings. We would continue to brew house drip coffees, and offer customers three selections: lattes, cappuccinos, and straight shots of espresso served at the bar, just like in Italy. While our customers might savor a latte, straight espresso was meant to be drunk very quickly while the crema, a creamy emulsion of the coffee’s oils, was still on the top.

  Our coffee rep pulled espressos for each of us and showed us how to knock it back like a strong shot of whiskey. Neither Helen nor I had ever been to Italy, but we had spent many hours looking through magazines and catalogs, as well as sampling coffee shops up and down the West Coast. We had tasted a number of similar espresso drinks in San Francisco and in Seattle where a relatively new coffee company, Starbucks, was starting to make a name for itself. It was a risk to introduce European coffees to Ashland, but a well-calculated one. Helen and I had modeled Torte to match Ashland’s Elizabethan aesthetic. We felt confident that even if our local customer base turned their noses down at “fancy” coffee, we would be able to gain a following with the tourist crowd.

  “This is delicious,” Wendy said finishing her shot.

  Helen set her empty glass on the counter. “I’ll have another. Or maybe a dozen.”

  “Pace yourself,” I cautioned.

  We took turns practicing on the machine and sharing complimentary samples with customers. Perhaps our loyal base was being kind, but the feedback seemed positive; every mug and shot glass was returned empty. Hopefully that was a sign of things to come. Once Helen and Wendy had both familiarized themselves with pulling creamy espresso shots, they took a break to go check out the sale at Small Change, a clothing store nearby in the plaza. I had thought that having a moment of reprieve would be good for me, but the opposite was true. The quiet lull of the afternoon and the absence of Helen’s laughter brought memories of Chuck’s death to the forefront of my mind. I replayed every detail of the night. What if I had run out to grab him? Maybe I could have stopped him. I should have reacted faster, but everything had happened in a strange, dream-like blur.

  Fortunately, I didn’t have too much time alone with my thoughts. Helen and Wendy returned shortly with bags full of dresses for Juliet and Amanda. I had to resist racing over to hug Helen. She definitely would have suspected that something was wrong. Instead I took solace in listening to them describe the great deals they had found and nodded approval when they showed me their haul.

  Late in the afternoon Doug came into the bakery. His cheeks had a touch of color, I guessed from driving around with the top down all afternoon.

  “Doug, you’re just in time to try a cappuccino,” Helen said, handing him a coffee. “This is my tenth attempt, and I think I’m getting better, but promise you’ll be honest.”

  “Helen, everything you make is next to godliness.” Doug took the drink.

  “Stop, you’ll make me blush.” She waved him off.

  “Then my work here is done.” He winked. “Will, do you have a minute? I want to run something by you.”

  “Sure.” I wiped my hands on a dish towel and went to join him at a two-person table.

  Helen and Wendy were so busy boxing up the Cabaret desserts that they didn’t take notice.

  “Any news on the pay phone?”

  Doug shook his head. “Another dead end. Wiped clean.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m not sure.” He took a sip of the cappuccino. “This is really good.”

  “I know. I think we might be onto something with specialty coffees.”

  “Agreed.” He took another drink, then continued. “I don’t know if it officially means anything, but my instincts are telling me that this has to be our guy. They’re also telling me that he knew he had hit someone and now is trying to clean up his tracks.”

  “Do you think that it means that the hit-and-run was intentional?”

  He removed his notebook from his short-sleeve black shirt with tropical white flowers. “That’s the crux of the issue isn’t it? I don’t know, Will. Am I in over my head?” He ran his fingers through his reddish hair.

  “Why do you say that?” I glanced out the window where a group of high-schoolers skateboarded in the plaza. It would be time to pick up Juliet from school soon. If Doug was worried, should I be too?

  “I want to make a good impression and I’d been so hopeful after our lead this morning, and now I feel like all those clues have evaporated and I’m back at square one with nothing.” He doodled on his notebook as he spoke.

  “Isn’t that how investigations go?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I feel like I’m in over my head. Maybe I shouldn’t have offered to take this one on.” He let out a low sigh and took another drink of his coffee.

  “It’s way too soon to start thinking that. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours. You said yourself that the first forty-eight hours are the most critical. We’re not even halfway through that window.”

  He shifted his body weight. “You’re right. Thanks, Will. I needed a pep talk. What do you think? The more time I spend replaying everything, the more I’m convinced that this was intentional.”

  I glanced behind us to make sure Helen wasn’t watching. “Me too.” I told him about my conversation with Jeri. “Why would she lie to me? She was definitely there before opening, and she and Chuck were making out. Then out of nowhere she slapped him and stormed off.”

  “Hmm.” Doug strummed his amber beard. “A lover’s spat? This is good intel. I’ll add her to my list. I’ve made it through about half of the neighborhood surrounding the Cabaret, but I’m going to continue to canvass.”

  “What can I do?”

  “You’re sure you still want to be involved?” Doug raised an eyebrow in Helen’s direction. “If our instincts are right, it means we’re looking for a killer.”

  “I know.” I intentionally kept my focus on my friend.

  “In that case, you’re delivering desserts to the Cabaret again tonight. Can you stick around for a while? Keep an ear and eye open. I suspect that the killer is tied to the theater. It’s probably someone involved or maybe even a fellow cast member. I interviewed Chuck’s understudy on the off chance that he was seeking the limelight. No luck. He had an air-tight alibi.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “Let’s meet for that beer later and regroup.” He finished his cappuccino and left.

  I sent Wendy and Helen home, claiming that I would take care of the rest of the cleaning, lock up, and deliver pastries to the Cabaret. A feeling of guilt came over me when Helen kissed me and thanked me for being the best husband on the planet. If she knew what I was really up to, she might not feel the same.

  Chapter Ten

  With every new detail that the journal revealed, I found myself feeling more connected to my father. I didn’t fault him for not telling Mom, although I did appreciate that he was torn over the decision.

  “You were really thinking about giving up the case?” I asked the Professor.

  “I was considering walking off the case and walking away from detective life.”

  “Really? I can’t imagine.”

  “But remember, as I said before, we were young. The Pastry Case, as your father and I referred to it, has haunted me for years, but it taught me many things. One of the most important things I’ve learned over the course of my career, in fact.”

  “What’s that?”

  “To always trust your instincts.” His golden-flecked eyes met mine. “Always. Your instincts will never lead you astray. That’s a lesson for work, for love, for life.”

  The Professor’s words struck a chord. He was right. I wished I had a clear instinct on what was next for me and Carlos. I had been intentionally trying to sit with the distance betwe
en us. To allow myself space and time. I had thought that an answer or a sense of knowing might magically appear, but it hadn’t yet.

  “What did your instincts tell you about the case?”

  “That we were looking for a cold-blooded killer. The crime-scene analysts came in to examine any potential skid marks—the only physical evidence possibly left on the scene—aside from some broken pieces of headlights. Remember, this was before the kind of digital technology we have today. We were shooting photos on my old Nikon camera, and I would have to run it up the street to the drug store to have them process the film. The team was able to determine that the car had intentionally sped up before coming in contact with Chuck. There were no signs of skid marks that would have indicated an attempt to brake or stop. The only trace they found was when the car took a sharp right turn.”

  “You mean as in when the driver was making his or her getaway?”

  “Exactly.” His kind eyes held a hint of nostalgia. Or was it regret? “You are your father’s daughter. If the driver had attempted to stop, there would have been marks in the street from the impact of slamming on his brakes quickly. The analysts found no evidence of that. Quite frankly it confirmed my suspicion. Since your father and I were witnesses, we would have heard and seen the car attempting to brake. Vehicles in the eighties didn’t have the same safety standards we have today. It’s likely that the car would have flipped. I certainly had plenty of learning to do, but we were right about Chuck being murdered.”

  I glanced up at the clock on the far wall. We had been talking for over an hour.

  “Am I keeping you?” the Professor asked.

  “No. And, even if you were, we can’t stop now.” I leafed through the journal. There were only twenty or thirty pages left labeled “The Pastry Case.” The remaining pages were notes and some of my dad’s poetry.

  “I suppose that’s true.”

  It was no wonder that the Professor had been drawn to Ashland. My father’s words made our town come to life. I could almost hear his calming, baritone voice through the pages of his journal. It made me feel like I had been transported to the 1980s. I craved more. I had become completely immersed in the past. So much so that I knew there was no hope of being productive in the kitchen or with my staff until I had learned every detail about my dad’s involvement in the Pastry Case.