I followed him to his office, which was more like a glorified broom closet. Doug had said everyone in town had a crush on Helen. Did that include him? I’d never considered the possibility. Helen and Doug were friends. We were all friends. If Doug did have feelings for Helen that would seriously complicate things.
I dropped it as we crammed into his office, where he had set out stacks of bank records. Despite the worn patches in the carpet, the rusting filing cabinet, and the olive green phone and intercom system on his desk, Doug had managed to make the office feel somewhat homey with posters and playbills taped to the walls.
“These are Chuck’s statements?” I declined Doug’s offer of stale coffee.
“Yes.” He sat down at his desk and pointed to a folding chair in the corner. “Pull that up and take a look at this.”
I unfolded the metal chair and sat across from him. Doug had highlighted sections of each bank statement.
“Look at these. These are large deposits that don’t match his salary from the Festival or the Cabaret. Every deposit is in cash. They’ve been coming in steady for three months. The same amount every month. Take a look.”
Doug handed me the first few pages for a closer look. “You’re not kidding about large deposits. Two thousand dollars?”
“Exactly.” Doug pointed to highlighted sections on more of the statements. “Where was Chuck getting that kind of cash?”
“His schemes? Drugs? Could he have been dealing?”
“Possibly. This is the first tangible proof we have in the case. Chuck was raking in the cash.”
“Do you think this means that Pat and Jeri were telling the truth?” I handed him the computer printout pages with little holes perforated along the edges.
“I think it likely means that Chuck was indeed working under-the-table deals anywhere and everywhere that he could. It’s also possible that he was dealing, but I don’t have any proof of that at the moment.”
“Where does that leave us in terms of suspects though?”
“And, there’s the rub.” Doug restacked the bank statements. “Unfortunately it means that everyone had a motive to kill him. As I learned in the academy, money is the motive in the vast majority of murders.”
“Now what?”
Doug sighed. “I don’t know, Will. I’m running out of ideas and time. My boss thinks the window has already closed. I’ve hit a dead end on hard evidence. These statements help support my theory, but they would never stand up in court on their own. The defense could simply say Chuck received cash from a rich aunt or side jobs.”
“Do you think you should try to talk to Richard? He seemed like he knew something last night. Unless he was just trying to one-up me.”
“I’ll talk to him. He’s first on my list this morning. And I’ll circle back with Pat. If we could determine who had the most to lose financially, that could break open the case.”
I thought for a minute. “Jeri is convinced that Shelly and Stewart are in financial trouble. She said they both cashed out retirement savings, took second mortgages. They got the old church for a steal because it was in such bad shape, but it sounds like they grossly underestimated how much renovations were going to cost.”
Doug took a sip from a coffee cup on his desk that looked like it might have been sitting there for days. A thin film had formed on the top of the coffee. “Ah. This is terrible.” He grimaced and set the mug down.
“Come over to the bakeshop. I’ll make you a real coffee.” I pointed to the chocolate donut hole that he hadn’t touched yet. “You’re starting out your career, Doug. This is the time to make a statement about the kind of detective you’re going to be, and as your best friend I can’t allow you to become a bad-coffee-and-donuts stereotype.”
“Touché.” He reached for the chocolate donut hole and ate it in one bite. “First rule of crime, get rid of the evidence.”
Our normal banter had been restored. I felt relieved. Maybe I had read more into what he had said about Helen than I should have. It was probably because Richard Lord had weaseled his way under my skin.
“Helen and I didn’t have anywhere near the same kind of expenses to get the bakery up and running and even we had sticker shock with the final bills for plumbing, electricity, sheetrock. If Chuck was doing the same kind of thing to the Cabaret that he did to OSF and Rumors, it’s possible that Shelly and Stewart have the most money to lose.”
Doug nodded. “That’s a good point. And with both of them we have opportunity covered. The hit-and-run occurred right in front of the Cabaret where they had both been seen minutes before. They’re checking all three boxes on my list: motive, means, opportunity.”
“What do you do next?”
He scribbled a note on a yellow legal pad. “That is the question.”
“Anything you want me to help with?”
“No. I hate to say it, but Richard is right. You’ve done more than your fair share already, and I’m hoping that whoever has been following you around is trying to scare you. But with the note on the napkin and someone coming after you two nights in a row, it’s not safe. It’s time to back off, Will. For Helen and Juliet.”
One part of me felt relieved. The other disappointed. I’d come this far with Doug that it would be nice to see the case through to the end and get some closure, but no amount of personal desire would outweigh the guilt I would feel if something did happen to Juliet or Helen.
“Fair enough. Promise me you’ll let me know how it turns out, though.”
“Of course. It will give me an excuse to up my detective game and establish myself as Ashland’s latte-drinking sleuth.”
“That I can most certainly help you with.”
Doug stood and shook my hand. “Seriously, Will, I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done the last few days. I wouldn’t have a single lead in the case if it weren’t for you.”
“You know that’s not true. It’s been fun. I mean, not that it’s fun that Chuck is dead or that his killer is running around free, but spending time with you and watching how you go about piecing together the clues. If I wasn’t in the baking business, I might have to consider a career change.”
“Will, the badge and uniform would look good on you.” He tapped the gold badge on his chest.
“I’ll leave the uniform to you and stick with flour and butter.”
“Deal.” He walked me out. “I’ll stop by later and let you know what I learn.”
I left with a new resolve to pour myself into the work. If I had learned anything these past few days it was that I may not be the richest man on paper in Ashland, but I had an abundance of wealth in the form of Helen, Juliet, and Torte.
Chapter Seventeen
The Professor shut the journal. He folded his hands together, linking his fingers. “Well, there you have it, Juliet. The Pastry Case. My first solo case. Still unsolved.”
“Wait, that’s it?”
He unclasped his hands. “Alas, it is. I warned you that you wouldn’t be satisfied with the ending.”
“But I don’t understand. What happened after my dad dropped out of the investigation?”
“Things returned to normal for the most part. I continued questioning suspects, following up on a few anonymous tips, tracking lots of dead ends. It was frustrating, to say the very least. Your dad and I felt like we might have had a chance at catching Chuck’s killer if we had had more time to work on it together, but Will made the right choice by opting out. I didn’t blame him. I would have done the same thing in his position.” The professor folded his hands. “I wish I could have closed the case.”
“What about my dad? What about whoever was following him? The guy who left the note at Torte?”
“More of the same. Will was vigilant. He reported a few instances where he thought someone was watching the bakeshop, but when I arrived on the scene each time the guy was gone. It paralleled my frustration with the investigation. It always felt like we were inches away from solving the case.”
>
“That was it? My mom never knew anything about my dad working with you?”
“Not to my knowledge. There was one more incident. Torte was vandalized.”
“What?”
The Professor sighed. “Yes. It was about a week after Will and I decided it would be best to keep him out of the investigation. Your parents arrived at Torte to find the front windows smashed. There had been some vandalism and graffiti in town, but Will and I knew that the bakeshop had been targeted. He found a note tied to a rock that mimicked the same tone of the note on the napkin. He made sure your mom never saw it, but I sent it into the lab to have the handwriting analyzed. It came back a match.”
“But you never figure out who wrote it?”
“No.” He looked tired. “I made copies of the entire police report and of my notes from the Pastry Case for your dad. I think that Will kept newspaper clippings, photos from the damage to the bakeshop, and our collective case notes.”
“I’ll have to check the basement tonight. I remember seeing other papers, but at the time I was focused on his journal.”
“If the case notes aren’t there, let me know. I’d be happy to provide you with access to the old files. They’re stored in archives.”
“I can’t believe that nothing more ever developed.” It was almost impossible to believe that any criminal could have eluded the Professor for all these years.
“Nothing.” He hung his head. “This case will stay with me until my dying days. There is nothing I’d like more than to bring Chuck’s killer to justice.”
“What about Stewart and Shelly?” I couldn’t accept that there wasn’t more to the story.
“I had my suspicions about both of them, but again, nothing concrete. Certainly not enough evidence to make an arrest.”
His phone dinged. “Ah, this is your mother. Duty calls.”
Before he left, he reached for my hand. “I’m sorry to disappoint you and leave you wanting more. You have a taste of what it’s like to walk in my shoes. There’s nothing worse in this profession than an unsolved case, but I am glad to have had a chance to share these memories with you. Those were some of my best days with your father.” He placed his hand on his heart. His eyes misted. “Reading his account of our first adventure has made him more alive for me too.”
I fought back hot tears and a growing lump in my throat.
“There is one favor I must ask.” He reached for his tweed jacket.
“Sure, anything.”
“It’s about your mother. I would like to tell her myself, when the time is right, but I don’t want to put you in an uncomfortable position.”
“It’s okay. I need some time to let this sink in anyway.” I cradled the journal in my hands.
He stood, kissed the top of my head, tugged on his tweed jacket, and left.
I tried to pretend like everything was normal for the rest of the afternoon, but I felt like I was walking through the motions. I checked in with the kitchen staff before they left for the day and tried to concentrate on filling out order forms for supplies. I felt like I was stuck in some sort of time warp.
“Hey, boss, we’re all done upstairs.” Andy tugged a gray ski hat over his amber-toned hair. “Need anything else before I hit the slopes?”
“Huh?” I looked up from the spreadsheet I’d been studying for the past half hour. It was a basic Excel document, but at the moment reading it felt like I was trying to decipher hieroglyphics.
“We’re done cleaning. Sequoia locked up. I’m heading out, unless you need more help?” He posed it as a question.
“No, no. That’s great. Thank you. Have fun on Mount A.”
Andy stepped into the kitchen. “Boss, is everything cool? You and the Professor were talking for hours and now you kind of seem”—he paused, searching for the right word—“well, out of it.”
“You’re too sweet, Andy.” I pushed the laptop aside. “Thanks for your concern, but I’m fine. You know what I really need?”
He perked up. “A triple-shot espresso. I can go pull shots right now.”
“You have a ski bus to catch.” I stretched and walked to the far wall where five cherry red aprons hung in a neat row. “And I don’t need coffee. I need to bake.”
“As Bethany would say, ‘Bakers gotta bake.’” Andy snapped his thumb and index finger. “As long as you’re cool, I’m out. The slope is open until ten o’clock. There’s nothing like skiing under the lights. See you tomorrow.”
I watched him take the stairs two at a time and then heard the doorbell ding as Andy opened and shut the front door. Mount Ashland ran a free daily ski bus that picked up powder-lovers at the plaza and delivered them to the lodge every hour during ski season. The shuttle made an ongoing loop up and back from the mountain, which allowed skiers of all ages to leave their cars at home and avoid long bottlenecks on the windy, narrow, mountainous road.
My statement to Andy was completely true. Maybe baking would clear my head, or at least provide a distraction from thinking about my dad. I poured myself a glass of white wine and surveyed the walk-in fridge. After considering ingredients for a minute, I landed on corned beef, red onions, potatoes, eggs, white cheddar, and fresh herbs. I would make an Irish corned beef hash for my dinner. If it turned out the way I anticipated, it could be tomorrow’s breakfast special.
I started by dicing red onions. Then I added a healthy glug of olive oil to a cast-iron skillet and sautéed the onions until they were translucent. My shoulders began to relax as I peeled and diced potatoes and added them to the skillet. I finished the hash with chopped fresh herbs, salt and pepper, and a generous splash of red wine vinegar. A hash is a simple, yet hearty potato dish that can be made with practically any ingredients on hand. For tonight’s dinner, I sliced strips of corned beef and cracked eggs on top. Next, I turned the heat to low and covered the hash with a lid to allow the eggs to poach.
The crisp white wine, with notes of apples and peaches, was refreshing. I returned to the inventory spreadsheet with renewed energy as the Irish hash cooked. From the columns in red, it was evident that we’d been selling more coffees with alternative milk options lately. We were running low on coconut, almond, and oat milk. I made a note to double our order. Then I reviewed the daily sales sheet. Torte had come a long way from the early days the Professor had spoken of when my parents had the one and only espresso machine in town. Our coffee sales equaled our pastry sales these days and our profit margin on espresso drinks was much higher. I was sure if my dad were here to see Torte’s progress, he would be astounded to see that we literally sold hundreds of artisan coffee drinks every day.
I left the paperwork to check on my hash. When I lifted the lid, warm steam enveloped my face. It smelled divine. The eggs had poached perfectly with pale yellow yokes surrounded by lovely white circles. I removed the skillet from the heat and topped it with freshly grated Irish cheddar.
My stomach rumbled. Suddenly, I was famished. When had I eaten last? With the Professor earlier this afternoon? The day had vanished in a blur of hazy memories. I served myself a scoop of the hash and returned to my wine. The briny flavor of the corned beef and hint of vinegar married with the creamy eggs, tender potatoes, spicy onions, and touch of sharp cheddar made me groan out loud. This was definitely a keeper.
I finished two servings while going over the receipts and tomorrow’s custom orders. By the time I had cleaned up my dinner dishes and filed the paperwork in the office, I felt more like myself. It was late (at least for me), and it had been an emotional day. I locked up and headed home.
Back at my house and armed with a cup of lemon zinger tea and my cozy fleece pajamas, I crawled into bed and began leafing through my dad’s journal again. As the Professor suspected, he had saved dozens of newspaper articles about Chuck’s death. Along with grainy photocopies of the note written on the napkin and the note he had found when Torte had been vandalized.
“STAY OUT OF IT OR TORTE WILL GET TORCHED!”
I was no han
dwriting expert, but the thick, heavy scroll was an unmistakable match. The lettering on the napkin had been written in all caps but otherwise the writing was very similar. As was the fact that whoever had written the notes, wrote them both in black felt-tip pen.
I reviewed the suspects. There was Chef Ronald, who had had a physical fight with Chuck the night he was murdered; Jeri, from OSF, who blamed Chuck for the fact that her job was on the line; Pat, the owner of Rumors, who had made it clear that he had no love lost for Chuck. And, last but not least Stewart and Shelly, who had poured their life savings into the Cabaret. I wondered—how many of them had stayed in town after Chuck’s death?
Jeri was still in touch with the Professor, but what about the others?
A plan began to form in my mind. What if I could find them now? What if I could pick up the case now? Part of me started to stop myself from heading down that rabbit hole, but another part felt prickly with excitement. What if I could close the case for my dad? And for the Professor. What if I could bring it full circle? It would be like closing an open loop while at the same time connecting me to my father deeper than ever before and helping the man who had taken on his fatherly role to finally be able to close his first case.
This was the twenty-first century after all, and I had fresh eyes. What if there was something in his journal and old articles that they had missed? Or maybe not even missed but had been unable to prove at the time. The handwritten notes would be my starting point.
The Professor had mentioned that he took handwriting samples from each of the suspects. But the killer was clever. They could have easily disguised their handwriting. If I could track down each of the suspects and find a secret way to obtain current handwriting samples, the Professor could have them analyzed against the old notes.
I sat up in bed. This could work, but I needed help and I knew just the person. I reached for my phone and called Lance.
Nothing Bundt Trouble Page 15
