Carlos leaned over and kissed the top of my head. “Mi querida, do not let this worry you. This is the job of the police. The Professor he will take care of this.”
“Yeah,” I agreed.
Lance caught my eye.
As our friendship developed, we had come to have an understanding between us. Most of the time we didn’t even need to speak. I could tell what Lance was thinking. His quick glance told me everything—we would continue this conversation later.
He took a few bills out his wallet. “This round is on me, you two love birds. I have a date, which means I must go freshen up. Juliet, we’re on for our coffee date per usual tomorrow morning, yes?’”
“Uh, yeah.” Lance and I didn’t have a standing coffee date.
“Thank you for the drink. We will return the favor next time.” Carlos extended his hand and got to his feet.
“I know you will.” Lance gave him a Cheshire cat grin and stood too.
“Before we go, did Julieta mention the dinner in the vines?” Carlos asked.
Lance looked miffed. “No. No, she did not. Julieta, are you holding out on me?”
I rolled my eyes. “No. It slipped my mind. There’s been a lot going on.” Even though Lance had insisted on being a silent financial partner in Uva, Carlos and I liked to loop him in on our plans and vision. Lance trusted us implicitly. As he had said when we signed the paperwork making our collaboration official, “I’m in it for the free wine and the company.”
He claimed that he enjoyed being treated like royalty whenever he graced Uva with his presence, but I knew that he had swept in to save the small, organic vineyard from being bulldozed and turned into a gated community out of the goodness of his heart and for me. Recently Lance had opened up and shared pieces of his childhood and family story; memories that had been painful and kept close to his chest for decades. It had made us closer and given me a glance into his deeper character that he didn’t let many people see.
“Fair enough.” Lance turned to Carlos. “Do tell.”
“You remember we had discussed the idea of hosting dinners at the vineyard?”
“I do.”
“Julieta and I think we should host the next Sunday Supper in the vines. I will prepare a five-course meal and pair a wine with each dish. I think she may have told you about our themed dinners on the ship?”
“Yes, yes. They sounded fit for the stage.” Lance rubbed his hands together.
Carlos smiled at the compliment. “We did not want to do a food color pairing, but we thought it would be nice to have the guests dress in the same color—white. It is summer and everything is fresh and warm and breezy. What do you say? Do you like the idea?”
“Yes! Absolutely, yes.” Lance bounced on his tiptoes. “I say let’s book a date. Count me in. I happen to look ravishing in white if I do say so myself.”
“What do you think?” Carlos asked me. “Next week? Is that enough time to get the word out? I have been playing with the menu the last few days, so that will not be a problem.”
“Torte’s Sunday Suppers are legendary. If you put the word out the morning of the event, you’ll have the dinner booked in five minutes,” Lance said.
“That might be a bit of an exaggeration,” I replied.
“My point is, next week is excellent and my Sunday happens to be free, so I vote yes.”
“Si, it is a date.” Carlos beamed.
I knew he was excited about getting to share his love and knowledge of food and wine with his new friends and family.
We parted ways with Lance.
“I made dinner, if you’re hungry.” I said to Carlos as we walked toward Torte.
“Si, I am famished.”
The bakeshop was empty. My staff had left it sparkling and spotless.
“The kitchen is cleaner than on the ship. You have taught the team well, Julieta.” Carlos ran his finger along the marble countertop.
“They are pretty amazing. Aren’t they?” I went to get the pasta and chicken from the fridge.
“What can I do?” Carlos washed his hands.
“Can you grill the chicken?” I set the bowl of pasta on the counter and gave it another toss.
Carlos warmed olive oil in a pan.
“Speaking of our staff, I want to treat everyone to dinner after the competition tomorrow night. What do you think?”
“That is a wonderful idea.” Carlos seared the chicken breasts. “I will talk with Sterling and Marty about the menu for the Sunday Supper. I would like their help.”
“They’ll be thrilled.” Carlos had taken Sterling under his wing last summer when he and Ramiro had come to celebrate Mom and the Professor’s wedding. Sterling and his father had endured a strained relationship, so watching him and Carlos build an easy and natural rapport had made me happy. Likewise, Carlos and Marty had become fast friends. They shared a mutual love of corny jokes and enjoyed playing pranks in the kitchen. Carlos believed that a happy kitchen was an efficient kitchen. I didn’t disagree, but I had found myself holding my breath on more than one occasion, waiting for a fake snake to pop out of a flour canister or finding plastic spiders mixed in with raisins. Thus far Carlos had been restrained, but I knew that there was no chance he had given up his impish ways, and I wondered if part of pulling Sterling and Marty in on the menu planning was also going to involve some kitchen antics.
Once he had grilled the chicken, he cut it into long, thin strips. I poured us glasses of water, plated the pasta salad, and buttered some rolls. “This is incredible. I must cook for you, Julieta. You have been doing so much cooking for me. Are you trying to fatten me up?” He ran his hand over his taut waist.
“No. I’ve needed a brain break, that’s all. I was so worried about Andy, but after today I’m feeling more confident that suspicion has shifted away from him.”
Carlos held my gaze. “This is one of the reasons I love you, mi querida. You care so much for everyone around you. Sometimes to your own detriment, si?”
“I know.” That was fair. I did tend to get wrapped up in investigations like the mystery surrounding Benson’s death and worry about my staff’s personal lives and well- being. I blame it on a combination of my inquisitive nature and genetics. I had recently learned that my father, who died when I was young, had assisted the Professor on his first murder case, a previously unsolved hit-and-run. In a strange way it brought me comfort and a new point of connection with my father to know that the Capshaw bloodline had always been intrigued with puzzling together clues and trying to restore justice. I knew that Carlos didn’t fully understand my obsession. He seemed resigned to the knowledge that I wasn’t going to abandon who I was at my core for him. That didn’t mean that I needed to rub it in his face, though. I tried to be tactful and low key about my involvement.
Carlos dove into his pasta salad and changed the subject. “Okay, Sunday it is. I want to make sure that our Uva wines are the star of the show. Every course will be designed to enhance and elevate the flavors of the wine. I will work with Marty and Sterling, but I am hoping that you can find the time to brainstorm the dessert course.”
“Absolutely.” I savored the tangy flavors in the cold salad. The chicken was tender and juicy. “What wine are you thinking for the dessert course?”
“At first I was thinking the rosé because it’s light and sweet, but I want to start the salad course with that and work our way through the deeper wines. What do you think about a dessert pairing with the Cab Franc?”
Our Cab Franc was a heavy and bold red wine with dense notes of blackberries and spice. Immediately, I thought of a pavlova, a chewy and crisp marshmallow-like meringue we could serve with berries steeped in the Cab Franc, vanilla bean, lemon zest, and vanilla. We could finish it with a scoop of our vanilla concrete or hand-whipped cream.
When I finished telling Carlos my brainstorm, he dabbed the side of his lips with a napkin. “This is making me drool. It is perfection. For the other courses I want herbaceous salad, bread and cheeses
with dipping sauces and olives, a cold soup, and then grass-fed beef. I don’t know yet how we will serve it. Marinated steaks? Or perhaps thinly sliced and slathered with pesto. So many choices. I will see what Marty and Sterling have to add, but this dinner it will be beautiful.”
“What about décor?”
“Could we ask Janet to make some simple white flowers for each table? What else do you think we need?”
“Sure.” Janet, Thomas’s mom, owned A Rose by Any Other Name and had an exquisite eye when it came to floral design. Our families had partnered for years. Janet and her staff brought table bouquets to Torte every week and would stop by unannounced to touch up their flower arrangements.
“That’s where Bethany and Steph will come in. For sure we should do flowers along with white table linens and candles, but I know they’ll have some other great ideas. Bethany has an amazing talent for framing photos for social media.”
“This is good.” A wide grin spread across his face. “This is what we need. If we can take pictures and share them, this will bring in even more tourists.”
We agreed on the remaining details. I would send an invite out to our Sunday Supper email list and task Steph with designing some posters to display at Uva and by the pastry case. We finished dinner, cleaned up, and headed for home. Carlos made us Italian-style espressos and we sat on the deck watching the sunset. I took comfort in being cocooned in Carlos’s arms beneath a canopy of waxy oak trees and towering ponderosa pines. The sun put a show on for us as it illuminated Grizzly Peak and painted the hills a brilliant blushing pink and eggplant purple. We lingered until the stars made an appearance against the black night sky.
He didn’t mention anything more about Benson’s death. I appreciated the reprieve. In the morning, Lance and I would meet for coffee and map out a plan of what we’d do next.
Chapter Nineteen
The next morning was Monday, which meant that Torte would likely be busy all day. I wanted to get an early start since we intended to close the bakeshop to cheer on Andy later in the afternoon. I left Carlos snoozing in bed, pulled on a pair of white shorts, tennis shoes, a simple V-neck shirt, and a thin sweater. I opted to walk down Mountain Avenue and along Siskiyou Boulevard. My morning walks were a moving mediation. A way to clear my head and center myself before the mixers whirled to life and the ovens pumped out heat.
Despite the hour, the plaza was starting to come to life as I made my way through town. A city crew watered hanging baskets; shop vendors placed sandwich-board signs on the sidewalk, touting specials and sales; and morning exercisers headed toward Lithia Park with yoga mats and tennis rackets. During the summer season, most shops and restaurants offered extended hours for tourists who might take a stroll through Lithia Park and stop for a coffee or breakfast on the Calle before perusing Ashland’s many family-owned boutiques. I waved to a few fellow business owners on my way to Torte. A gorgeous white lace summer dress with a darted waist and flirty chiffon skirt caught my eye in the window at London Station. It was perfect for our dinner in the vines. I would have to stop in once the three-story mercantile was open and see if they had it in my size.
I continued on to the bakeshop, passing the blue awnings of the police station. As always there was a water dish for dogs and a bucket of chalk for young street artists sitting next to window boxes brimming with heliotrope and salvia.
When I crossed the street to Torte, the bakeshop was still dark. That must mean I was the first to arrive, which was fine by me. I unlocked the basement door, flipped on the lights, and went to work warming ovens, proofing yeast, and mixing cookie batter.
One of my favorite tricks to bring butter up to room temperature quickly—an essential step for baking—is to fill a Mason jar with boiling water. Then I would dump the water into a stockpot to use later and place the steaming jar directly over a stick of butter. After two minutes the stick was smooth and silky. The softened butter could be cut easily with a plastic knife. I used the technique to soften a few cups to use as the base for my lemon rosemary shortbread. The cookies were a popular item with their crisp, buttery texture, bright citrus flavor, and just a touch of rosemary to add an interesting herbal layer. The shortbread only used six simple ingredients: butter, sugar, flour, salt, lemon, and rosemary. I would cut them into pretty daisy shapes and dust them with lemon-infused sugar.
The pasta salad that Carlos and I had shared last night could be one of our lunch specials, but I needed to marinate some more chicken. By the time I had four trays of lemon shortbread baking and a vat of chicken marinating, Andy, Steph, and Sterling arrived. Steph and Sterling had recently moved in together, so I wasn’t surprised to see them, but I was shocked to see Andy.
“What are you doing here?” I scolded. “I thought we discussed that you were not coming in today.”
“I know, boss, but I have some news that I think you’re going to want to hear.”
Steph twisted her violet hair into two small pixie-like braids. Sterling unzipped his gray hoodie and hung it on the rack near the row of clean aprons.
“News about the murder?” I asked.
“Yeah.” Andy nodded. His eyes weren’t as puffy as they’d been yesterday. I hoped that meant that he’d finally gotten a good night’s sleep.
“Are you going to leave me hanging?”
Andy chuckled. “I am because I need a coffee—bad. I’ll run upstairs and make us some and then I’ll fill you in.”
My curiosity was piqued, but I couldn’t turn down a coffee, and I figured pulling shots of espresso was probably as therapeutic for him as kneading bread dough was for me.
“Smells like you’re baking,” Sterling said, peering into the industrial ovens.
“Lemon rosemary shortbread,” I told him.
“Nice.” He gave me a nod of approval before folding the top of his apron over so that he could wear half of it around his waist. He grabbed a pristine white kitchen towel and slung it over his shoulder, a trick that he had learned from Carlos. “Any special requests?”
“I made a pasta salad last night.” I showed him the marinating chicken. “There should be plenty for individual portions.”
“That sounds great. I was thinking of doing a cold carrot and cilantro soup for lunch and Marty had a couple of ideas for handmade naan with a side of hummus.”
“Am I drooling?” I teased. “What about you, Steph? Anything you need?”
She clipped two new custom cake orders to the wall near the decorating station. It was the height of wedding season, so we had a systematic approach to ensure that every cake was completed in a timely fashion. Orders in process were displayed on the left side of the wall, pending orders were stored by delivery date in a hanging folder, and completed orders ready for delivery or pickup were clipped to the right side of the wall.
Wedding cakes were very labor intensive. Most took at least a week to produce from start to finish. Plus we still had a lengthy list of custom orders for birthdays and anniversaries along with our regular daily items for the bakeshop.
Steph removed the top order. “I should have the lettering finished on the chalkboard cake in the next couple hours. Then I’m going to work on the three small party cakes that are due to be picked up this afternoon.”
“Sounds like a plan.” The chalkboard cake had been fun to watch come together. It was a four-tier chocolate cake draped in black fondant to resemble a chalkboard. Steph had been piping quotes about love provided by the bride and groom in white buttercream on each layer. The top of the unique cake would be adorned with a bouquet of flowers. One of the quotes that made me smile each time I had seen it was from Albert Einstein: “You can’t blame gravity for falling in love.”
True, I thought, as Andy made his way into the kitchen balancing a tray of iced lattes.
“I brought one for each of you.” He passed around the cold drinks. “Don’t get too excited. It’s nothing fancy—a standard iced latte. I’ve got to save myself for this afternoon.”
“Tha
nks, man.” Sterling took one of the glasses. “I’m sure it’s awesome and you definitely need to save your best stuff for later.”
“Do you want to go sit down?” I pointed to the seating area adjacent to the kitchen.
Andy hesitated. “As long as I’m not keeping you from anything?”
“Not at all.”
We took our lattes over to the couch. “What’s going on?”
Andy rubbed his hands on his thighs. “I heard a rumor last night. A big rumor that might lead to an arrest in Benson’s murder. I’m going to call the Professor first thing, but I wasn’t sure when was too early to call him.” He looked to the clock. It wasn’t yet six.
“That’s thoughtful of you, but I know that he would take your call anytime, especially if it’s related to a murder investigation.”
“Yeah. I’ll call him after this.” Andy took a long drink. “It’s about Sammy and, like I said, I don’t know if it’s true. It might just be a rumor, but even if it is, I think there’s still major implications.”
I could feel nervous energy vibrating through me. What had Andy learned?
“Did you know that Sammy owns her shop, Fluid, in Spokane?” He looked particularly young this morning in cargo shorts, graphic Star Wars T-shirt, and baseball cap.
“Yes, she told me that yesterday.”
“That’s pretty impressive for someone her age.” Andy sounded wistful.
“Definitely, but don’t let that discourage you. She also told me that her parents bought her the shop as a graduation gift.”
“Really?” Andy perked up. “I hadn’t heard that.”
“What did you hear?” I tried to get him to refocus.
“Right.” He nodded twice. “Yeah, I guess the rumor is that she’s planning to expand Fluid. She wants to open franchises all up and down the West Coast, something like a hundred shops in the next five years. Her goal is total world domination when it comes to coffee.”
“Wow. That is ambitious to say the least.” I knew enough about franchising to know that it is a serious undertaking I had no interest in. Thankfully, neither had Mom. We were quite content in Ashland.
Mocha, She Wrote Page 15
