We didn’t stay much longer. Ramiro’s spurt of energy was followed by a crash. His head kept drooping. Twice I caught him blinking rapidly to keep his eyes open.
“Should we go?” I suggested.
Carlos took one look at Ramiro and nodded. “Sí, I think we both may need a catnap soon.”
“Would you like me to invite Mom and the Professor over for dinner, or are you ready to call it a night?”
Ramiro rubbed the corner of his eye. “Could we stop for an espresso?”
“Absolutely!” I flashed him a grin. “I don’t know what your dad has told you, but I never turn down the chance for a coffee.”
He helped pick up our glasses. If they were in the mood for coffee we could pop into Torte. I knew that the team was dying to see Carlos again, especially Sterling. They had grown surprisingly tight when Carlos had visited last winter.
The drive to Torte only took a few minutes. I pointed out nearby wineries and hop farms. “Oh, before I forget,” I said, pulling into an angled parking space at the end of the plaza. “The wedding is a surprise. The story is that you’re both here for the Uva grand opening party. And, I might need to recruit you to help distract the Professor.”
“This is so romantic, Julieta,” Carlos said with a thickness in his voice.
“I see, so you mean they will surprised at the party.” Ramiro exited the car. A group of young girls walking arm in arm stopped in mid-stride and gaped at him. I was used to women ogling Carlos. It was no surprise that Ramiro got the same treatment. It was also impossible not to be drawn in by their Mediterranean looks and radiant charm.
“Exactly.” I waved to the girls, who realized I’d seen them staring at Ramiro. They giggled and ran off toward Lithia Park. “This is Torte.” I motioned to the bakeshop and couldn’t help but smile. Bethany had outdone herself with the front window display. It was a scene from a Parisian picnic with a red and white checkered blanket, bottles of blackberry sparkling sodas and lemonade with pink and yellow striped straws, a basket bursting with bundles of our French baguettes, a collection of summer pastries like butterfly and ladybug cupcakes, and sugar cookies cut out like flowers. Customers sat at outdoor tables with blue and red umbrellas sipping lattes and noshing on buttery croissants.
“It is precioso.” Ramiro’s toothy grin made his face light up.
“Come inside. Everyone is excited to meet you, and I promise that Andy, our barista, makes the best espresso on the West Coast.”
“Sí, that is good.”
Inside, the bakeshop was relatively quiet. There was a group at one of the window booths. I did a double take because at first glance I could have sworn that one of the men in the group was Lance. He had the same lean, lanky frame and catlike features. It wasn’t Lance, though. His features were harder and his outfit—a flannel shirt and jeans—completely wrong.
“Boss, you brought the fam.” Andy’s voice made me tear my eyes away from the booth.
“Right.” We moved toward the espresso bar. “You remember Carlos, and this is his son, Ramiro.”
Andy squeezed his hand into a fist. He bumped it twice on his chest and then flashed a peace sign. “Welcome to America, bro.”
Ramiro laughed. He mimicked Andy’s fist-bump greeting. “Thanks, bro.”
“Can I get you something? A hot chocolate?” Andy opened a canister of beans. “These beauties were delivered about an hour ago straight from the roaster.”
“The smell is so good.” Ramiro stepped closer to get a better whiff. “Can I have an espresso?”
Andy’s mouth dropped open. “Mad props, kid. I like it. Start ’em young on straight shots of this nectar of the gods.” He gave Ramiro another fist bump. “One espresso coming up.”
“Carlos.” Sterling joined us at the counter. He and Carlos exchanged a hug. “So good to have you here.”
“Yes, it is good to be here again. Julieta tells me you have been improving very much. I cannot wait to cook with you.”
Sterling almost blushed.
“This is my son, Ramiro.” Carlos introduced them.
I noticed Steph and Bethany had stopped cleaning up in the kitchen. Bethany’s face betrayed her. She gazed at Carlos with a starstruck, faraway stare. I couldn’t blame her. Carlos was devilishly handsome and had the same effect on pretty much every woman who crossed his path. “Come up.” I motioned to them.
Bethany pinched her cheeks and smoothed her wavy hair down. She checked her apron for stains. Steph tossed a dish towel in the sink.
“Here’s the rest of the team.” I finished the introductions, watching as Bethany blushed. I wondered if Andy would take notice. Bethany had had a little crush on Andy, but thus far he was completely oblivious. Steph, on the other hand, was immune to Carlos’s wiles. She stayed just long enough to be polite before returning to the kitchen.
Carlos and Sterling took off together, striking up a conversation about cuts of meat and the best way to slice salami. Andy had a captive audience in Ramiro. He talked him through each step of the espresso-making process. Bethany gave Carlos one final glance before recovering her composure and joining in on the coffee discussion. She hadn’t been around the last time Carlos was in town, so this was her first introduction. I wasn’t the least bit worried. I knew that her real feelings lay with Andy and that she was way too young for Carlos to even turn an eye.
I scanned the bakeshop. Aside from the booth with the gentleman who bore a striking resemblance to Lance, there were only two tables in use. Could the man be Leo, Lance’s brother? There was one way to find out. I left Ramiro in Andy’s capable hands. Then I picked up a carafe of coffee and began circulating through the tables.
“Anyone need a refill?” I asked, holding up a carafe when I stopped at their booth.
The man who looked like Lance handed me his cup. “As long as that’s not decaf. There’s a special place in hell for people who drink decaf.”
“Wow, that’s a strong sentiment.” I laughed, refilling his cup.
“Wasn’t kidding.” His voice sounded like Lance’s, except with an edge.
The woman sitting across from him turned cherry red. “You’re not going to like this, Leo, but I was about to ask her if she had any decaf.”
Leo! It was Lance’s brother. I wondered if I should say anything.
“Sarah, no employee of mine is drinking decaf. Man up and have another cup.”
Sarah winced. She showed us her hands, which were quivering. “I can’t. I already have the shakes. Too much coffee and too many late nights crunching numbers and watching over your dad.” Her fingernails were painted bright red to match her plaid shirt, which she had accessorized with funky plastic bangles and a chunky black and red plastic necklace.
“You always have the shakes,” he scoffed. “Good thing you know your stuff, otherwise I’d have to kick you to the curb.”
I wondered if this was how they interacted with one another. Was Leo kidding? Or was he really a jerk?”
The man sitting next to Sarah chimed in. “Who cares what coffee she drinks, Leo?” He appeared more poised. I would guess that he was in his late fifties. He wore a dress shirt, a purple bow tie, and slacks and had a stack of file folders in front of him.
“You know why I care? Because of all those damn tree huggers. They’re the ones who drink decaf. Not my guys out in the field. Can you imagine Jim or Rusty coming in here and ordering a decaf? It’s not American.”
I couldn’t believe the difference in attitude between Lance and his brother.
“If you want I can have our barista brew a fresh pot of decaf.” I addressed Sarah. “We have a number of customers who prefer our coffee without caffeine for a variety of reasons.” I found myself wanting to defend her.
Leo sighed. “Whatever. Like I said, the girl knows her stuff. She’s a master at balancing my books and I think she knows more about my company than I do.”
“Decaf would be nice.” Sarah shot me a look of thanks. I got the sense she was embarrasse
d by Leo’s strange attempt at praise.
“I’ll be right back.” I topped off Leo’s and the other man’s cups. “Hey, Andy, can you brew a half-pot of decaf?” I asked, setting the empty coffee carafe on the bar.
“You bet.” He nudged Ramiro in the waist. “You want to grind the beans for me?”
“Sí.”
“This kid knows his coffee.” Andy was not easily impressed. I knew that was high praise coming from him. “He told me he and his friends starting drinking cappuccinos in fifth grade. I think I need to move to Spain.”
“What? And leave this?” I swept my arm along the counter. “What would Ashland do without you?”
“If Ramiro sticks around they won’t need me. I’ll be out of a job.” Andy winked.
Once the decaf had brewed I returned to the booth.
Sarah offered her cup and a smile of relief. “Thanks again. I would have been up all night with the jitters.”
Leo made a grunting sound under his breath.
She ignored him. “Do you own this shop?”
“I do. I’m Jules, pastry chef and decaf coffee purveyor.”
“Jules, as in Juliet?” Leo said.
“Yes, that’s right.”
He stared at me with interest. “I think you know my brother.”
“Who’s that?” I decided it might be better if I didn’t let on that Lance had mentioned anything about his brother.
“Lance. He’s the director of tights or something at the playhouse.”
Sarah laughed uncomfortably. The other man shuffled paperwork in one of the file folders and ignored Leo’s dig.
“Lance is amazing. He’s the best artistic director that OSF has ever had.” I could hear my voice getting higher. Lance hadn’t exaggerated. Leo was obnoxious.
“I’m Jarvis.” The man wearing the light blue dress shirt extended his hand. “Jarvis O. Sandberg, attorney.”
I half expected him to hand me a business card.
“Oh, and I’m Sarah. Decaf lover.” Sarah introduced herself. “I manage the Brown Family trust, and try my best to keep these two on task.” She chuckled awkwardly. Neither Jarvis nor Leo laughed.
“Nice to meet you all. What brings you to Torte?”
Jarvis tapped the stack of crisp files. “Work.”
“We get that a lot.” I shifted the coffee carafe from one hand to the other. “SOU students call this their ‘office.’”
“I have an office in Medford,” Jarvis replied.
“We’re here on business, is what he means,” Leo said. “Waiting for that fruitcake brother of mine to show up.”
I had to resist dumping the rest of the decaf on his lap. How could he be so rude about Lance? And to someone he barely knew?
“Lance is meeting you here?” I asked, through clenched teeth.
“Yep. Said we had to come meet him at an artisan coffeehouse. We have these in Medford too, you know. It’s called Grandma J’s Café where you can get an entire stack of hotcakes, eggs, hash browns, and all the coffee you can drink for the same price as one of your fancy lattes.”
No wonder Lance had left his family behind.
“I can smell the patchouli from here. Artisan Chunky Monkey, what is that? My God. Call it coffee. I’ll take coffee from a can any day over what they serve in this hippie town.”
It wasn’t very often that someone came into my shop and offended me so blatantly. Nothing in Torte smelled of patchouli. We prided ourselves on serving top-notch baked goods that were infused with love. Sure, Ashland had a free-spirited community but that was one small piece of my beloved town. Ashlanders are diverse and worldly. Our small city attracts professors, playwrights, actors, and adventure seekers—people from varying corners of the globe.
In that moment, I had made up my mind that Lance was right. Leo had to be plotting to kill their father. I wanted to kill him.
Instead, I shifted the conversation. “I’m sorry to hear about your father. Lance mentioned that he isn’t doing well.”
Leo looked down at his coffee cup and didn’t answer.
Sarah tried to console him by reaching out for his hand. “Thank you. It’s been a hard time for everyone at the Brown Family Group. I’m afraid the senior Mr. Brown doesn’t have much time left.”
Leo threw her hand off. “What do you know? The old man keeps on ticking. Nothing has stopped him yet. He’ll probably keep going for another twenty years.”
Jarvis cleared his throat. “This coffee is delicious.” He smoothed the stack of files.
I got the sense he was uncomfortable with the topic of Mr. Brown’s failing health.
“It’s fantastic,” Sarah agreed. “Do you roast your own beans? I’ll have to buy some for the office. Working with a bunch of lumberjacks means that our coffee usually comes from a can.”
I was about to tell her that we sourced our beans from a local roaster, but Leo jumped in.
“My brother says you’re having some kind of tutti-frutti party he wants us to come to. Says it’s a new potential investment for the Brown Group.” Leo sounded disinterested.
Is that how Lance had pitched it? As a potential investment deal? In what, Uva?
I kept my face neutral. “Yes, we’re having a launch party for the vineyard. You’re all welcome to come. It’s a community event. We’re hosting a Midsummer Night’s Eve party in honor of reopening the winery.”
“That sounds like fun,” Sarah said, fiddling with the cheap plastic bracelets around her wrist.
Leo gnawed on his fingernail. “I’m not wearing a costume. I already told my brother that there was no way he was going to get me in tights.”
“Costumes are optional.” I forced a smile. “I should get back to work, but maybe I’ll see you again this weekend.”
I left them bickering about costumes. Lance’s brother was loathsome. I didn’t want him anywhere near the wedding. But I had made a promise to a friend. I just couldn’t help but wonder if Lance had another reason for inviting Leo. He wasn’t really thinking of selling his portion of Uva, was he? There was no way that I could work with Richard Lord and Leo. No way.
Chapter Eight
I skipped inviting Mom and the Professor to dinner. Ramiro and Carlos scarfed down dinner and were asleep minutes later. My apartment wasn’t exactly spacious, but I set Ramiro up on an air mattress on the living room floor. Carlos took the couch. He insisted, despite my attempts to give them my bed.
Even if my sleep hadn’t been impacted by the stress of everything going on, trying to sleep knowing that Carlos was only a few feet away was nearly impossible. I tossed and turned all night before finally giving up sometime around four. Odds were good that Ramiro and Carlos would sleep for hours, so I tiptoed into the bathroom and got dressed. The kitchen was stocked with coffee, eggs, fruit, and bread and pastries that I’d brought home from Torte last night. They would be fine once they woke. I left a note, telling them to come find me at the bakeshop later and to help themselves to anything in the kitchen.
Hopefully they could have a leisurely morning. My morning was not going to be quite as calm. There were still about a thousand things to do before the wedding. Carlos had offered his services. Having his skilled hands in the kitchen would be a tremendous relief. Ramiro also agreed to help with anything we needed. Obviously, he wasn’t a formally trained chef like his father, but we would take any extra help we could get, even if it meant asking him to fold napkins or sprinkle sugar on cookie cutouts.
I headed down the stairs from my apartment. Elevation, the outdoor store, was at ground level. Their front window had huge banners offering twenty percent off kayaks. Ashland wasn’t just known as a destination for theater lovers. Given our proximity to dozens of lakes and rivers, adventure-seekers used Ashland as base camp for summer explorations. It wasn’t unusual to see groups of men and women dressed in rafting gear with sunglasses, waterproof hats, and Bull Frog sunscreen meandering between couples in evening wear headed for the Elizabethan theater.
Continuing along the sidewalk I passed Puck’s Pub and A Rose by Any Other Name. Torte sat in a peaceful slumber at the end of the plaza. Aside from chirping crickets and the sound of the Lithia bubblers a quiet calm permeated downtown. I paused and breathed it in.
The morning stillness was shattered by my phone buzzing. I was startled.
Who was calling me this early? I unlocked the front door and tugged my phone from my bag. Lance’s face flashed on the screen.
“Lance? What’s going on?” There was no reason for Lance to be calling me now.
“He’s dead, Juliet. Dead.”
“Who?” My thoughts went immediately to Leo. I had taken such an instant dislike to him that part of me wouldn’t have been sad to hear that he was dead. I felt along the front wall and flipped on the lights.
“My father.” Lance’s voice cracked. “He’s dead.”
“Oh, Lance. I’m so sorry. What can I do? I’m at Torte. Do you want to come down for a coffee? It’s just me. Or I can bring you something, or come to your place. Anything. Anything you need, I’m here.”
“No. I had to get out of that house.” Lance paused. “I’m driving aimlessly around Medford trying to figure out what to do next. I know Leo killed him, Juliet. Or put one of his henchmen up to it. You have to help me prove it.”
“Okay, okay. Lance, try to breathe. Should I come get you? You probably shouldn’t be driving. I’m sure you’re in shock.”
“I’m fine. The man was in his eighties. He lived a good life. He knew this was coming.” There was brief silence on the phone. “The only thing I’m in shock about is that my brother went through with it. I was there, Juliet. I was with him last night. He was awake and alert. We talked. He ate some pudding. I went to bed and woke up a few hours later to the sound of alarms blaring in his room. Leo claims that he died peacefully in his sleep, but I saw his machines—all of those tubes and his breathing machine. They were unplugged, Juliet.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Someone pulled the plug, and I’m sure it was my brother.”
Till Death Do Us Tart Page 7
