Till Death Do Us Tart

by Ellie Alexander

  Chapter Sixteen

  This time I locked Torte’s front door and secured the basement. I felt an eager sense of anticipation as I punched in the temp and watched the oven turn bright orange. Of course, finding baking supplies was going to be challenging. I walked over to the new built-in fridge. The team had transferred our cold and frozen items into the fridge. I gathered berries, buttermilk, eggs, and butter. I creamed butter and sugar together until it was smooth and yellow. Then I mixed in buttermilk. Substituting regular milk with buttermilk or sour cream is one of my favorite chef tips. Tangy buttermilk or sour cream deepens the flavor profile of traditional cake batter and gives it a subtle tanginess.

  It was surprising how quickly I fell into a rhythm in my new “mixing zone.” Since Mom and I had provided input in the design, the kitchen’s flow was intuitive. Once we had unpacked and organized our supplies from upstairs, I could tell that the new space was going to streamline our production.

  Roger had suggested baking zones based on our feedback. There was a designated rolling zone with extra-wide countertops for pie crust, cookie dough, and fondant. A mixing zone with neat rows of our mixers. A decorating zone offered additional lighting and pull-out drawers to store our tools for sugar art and piping. Lastly, next to the wood-burning oven there was the warming zone with huge rolling carts where loaves of our homemade bread could rise while awaiting their turn in the oven.

  If only Mom could be here to help me christen the new kitchen, I thought, shifting the mixer to low as I cracked in eggs. The batter whipped into a lovely golden color. After incorporating flour, baking soda, salt, and a touch of cinnamon, I folded in the berries by hand, careful not to damage the delicate purple, juicy beauties. Once I had spread the batter into a greased pan, I got to work on the crumble for the top of the coffee cake. I forked butter, brown sugar, oats, cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice together and sprinkled it generously over the top. Then I slid my coffee cake into the oven.

  With the coffee cake baking, I dug our French press out of one of the boxes and started a tea kettle boiling. I found a stash of our espresso beans and ground them. The smell was intoxicating. We sourced our beans from a local roaster. The heady coffee scent quickly filled the kitchen.

  While I waited for the water to boil, I began unpacking boxes of spices—cardamom, chili powder, and curry. I smiled to myself as I realized that Andy had packed the spice boxes alphabetically. His technique would make unpacking a breeze. We typically stored spices used in our savory baking in one cupboard and spices for sweet baking in another. That way we didn’t run the risk of cumin or crushed red pepper flakes accidentally mixing into our sweet bread.

  The teakettle let out a shrill whistle. I jumped and nearly shattered a jar of whole vanilla beans. French press is one of my favorite leisurely morning treats. The process is simple but requires patience. The key to brewing a full-bodied cup of French press is the amount of contact the grinds have with the water. No one wants a bitter, grainy cup of coffee. Typically, the end result of a perfectly brewed French press is deeper, stronger, and in my opinion more delicious coffee. Andy had taught me to skim the grounds at the top of the press before plunging it. This assures that none of the fine particles will end up in the bottom of your cup. I poured half of the hot water evenly over the grounds and waited for it to “bloom.” This is the process of the coffee oils mixing with the water. A crust of grounds began to form. I stirred them thoroughly and then added the rest of the water. Then I let the grounds sit for five minutes before plunging them.

  The aroma was incredible. It was almost impossible to wait, but I knew that it would be worth it. When five minutes hit, I slowly pressed the plunger down, poured myself a cup and savored it. The dark roast was perfectly balanced with a bright nutty finish. I circled the kitchen to survey my work and map out what to do next. The cupboards had modern sliding racks that would allow for easy access. I organized savory spices in the cabinets next to the stove and spices we used most often in baking, like cinnamon and nutmeg, in the cupboards near the mixing zone.

  I wanted Steph and Bethany’s help in organizing the decorating zone. Roger’s crew had labeled every box from upstairs and placed it in its zone. Yet another touch of his professionalism. No detail had been spared. Assuming the next phase of renovations continued as smoothly, I would definitely be writing Roger a glowing letter of recommendation.

  The scent of my berry coffee cake made my mouth water. I tossed three empty spice boxes on the floor and went to check on it. It had baked to a bubbling brown color with purple berries bursting to the surface and creating a gorgeous crisp. I removed it from the oven. The smell was so heavenly that it was hard to resist cutting myself a taste. I set it on the counter to cool and unpacked the last four spice boxes.

  A knock on the basement door startled me. After my earlier run-in with Roger and Clarissa I was on edge. Fortunately, I heard Lance’s singsong voice calling, “Juliet, open up!”

  I walked over to let him in. “Lance, this is getting to be a habit,” I said, opening the door.

  “What, darling?” He glanced behind him up the stairwell before coming inside.

  “You. Up this early. What happened to your beauty sleep? Didn’t you once tell me that you never wake before you’ve had eight hours of contented rest?”

  He waved me off with an exasperated sigh. “Yes, but not when we’re on a case.”

  “On a case?” I raised an eyebrow.

  “What is that smell?” He brushed past me and made a beeline for the kitchen.

  I followed after him. “French press coffee and triple berry coffee cake. It should be cool. Do you want a slice? Have you had coffee yet?”

  “Is that even a question?” He leaned against the island. He was wearing a pair of tailored black shorts, black loafers, and a polo shirt. If I didn’t know better I would think he was about to go boating.

  “The question is, can I find plates and utensils?”

  Lance helped me search for the boxes labeled “flatware.” Once we found them, I cut us each a slice of the coffee cake and poured Lance a cup of French press.

  “Okay, so let’s get serious,” Lance said, stabbing his fork into his coffee cake. “We have two orders of business this morning. First, we have to go see if we can get Megan alone. Second, I want you to be there when I meet with Leo and his delinquents.”

  “Delinquents?”

  “You know what I mean. That shady, albeit well-dressed lawyer, Jarvis, and our tacky little assistant, Sarah.” Lance stared at me over the rim of his coffee mug.

  I wasn’t sure that I would describe either Jarvis or Sarah as delinquents.

  “Fine,” Lance said. “I can tell by your signature stare that ‘delinquents’ is the wrong choice of word. You know what I’m getting at, darling. Something is amiss with my father’s death and you and I are going to get to the bottom of it.”

  I wanted to help Lance, but I looked at the piles of boxes. There was much work to be done at Torte and then there was the fact that Carlos and Ramiro were in town and I had promised to take them on a tour of Southern Oregon. I hesitated. “Lance, I want to, but I don’t know how much time I’m going to have.”

  His fork clanged on his plate. “Then there’s no time to waste. Make haste, darling. Let’s go.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes, right now.” He pointed to the berry coffee cake. “Slice up a hearty piece of that and put it in a box. I do believe that your magical pastry is just what we need to sweet-talk our way in for an early-morning visit.”

  It was futile to try and argue with Lance, and I had to admit that I was more than curious to talk to Megan. I boxed up a slice of coffee cake and we left together.

  The hospital was a short walk from downtown. Lance and I discussed potential theories and I told him that Clarissa had drunk the wine last night.

  “How vexing,” Lance replied with distaste as we passed a popular breakfast spot with outdoor seating that looked out onto Ashland’s g
olden hills. “That ruins our best theory. When will Thomas have the results back from the lab?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. He said that he was taking the bottles to Medford this morning, but I have no idea how long the process is. There are quite a few bottles to test.”

  “We should have had him gather the wineglasses too.”

  “But how? There were hundreds of glasses in circulation last night and the kitchen crew was constantly running the dishwasher.”

  Lance stopped to pick up a piece of trash on the sidewalk. “What you’re saying is that odds are good we won’t know where the poison originated.”

  “Probably.”

  We arrived at the hospital. The reception area was empty except for a couple of patients waiting to be seen. Lance swept into the room as if he was about to introduce a new play on the Elizabethan stage. He took the hand of the woman sitting at the reception desk and kissed the back of it. “Good morning, my friend Juliet and I are here to see our dear, dear friend Megan.”

  The young woman blushed at Lance’s dramatic greeting. “What’s her last name and room number?”

  Lance relayed the information. The receptionist punched something into the computer and then frowned. “I’m sorry, but you can’t see her.”

  I started to move away from the desk. I had figured that we were probably too early for visiting hours. Lance grabbed my wrist. “We understand that it’s early, but you see, our dear friend Megan had quite a nasty accident last night. We were here with the police and she begged—absolutely begged—Juliet to bake her something special. She said that a slice of pastry would be the only way she could possibly start to feel better.”

  He was laying it on thick, and shockingly the receptionist smiled and nodded attentively. “So you see, we absolutely must deliver her this box of healing sweets.”

  The receptionist tapped her computer screen. “It’s not that I won’t let you in to see her. I would, but she’s not here.”

  “What?” Lance’s voice boomed in the quiet room. A patient with a pack of ice resting on her arm turned in our direction. “What do you mean she’s not here? Check again. She must be here. We just saw her last night. Late last night.”

  The receptionist checked her screen again. She rotated it for us to see. “It says right here that she was discharged and left.”

  “When?”

  “About an hour ago.”

  “Where did she go?”

  The receptionist shrugged. “She left on her own. I have no idea.”

  Lance snatched the box of coffee cake from my hands and gave it to her. “Megan’s loss is your gain. Thank you for your help. Let us offer you this as a token of our appreciation.”

  She took the box and smiled broadly. “It smells wonderful. Thanks.”

  With that Lance yanked me outside. “She left?”

  I was equally surprised. Megan could barely speak last night and it sounded as if the doctors had intended to keep her until they confirmed what kind of poison she had consumed. “I know. It’s weird.”

  “It’s not just weird, darling. It’s worrisome.” Lance reached into his pocket and removed his phone.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “Megan.” He placed the call, tapping his toe on the pavement repeatedly while waiting for her to pick up. “No answer,” he said with his hand over the phone, before leaving a message begging Megan to call him immediately.

  “Her office is in Medford, right?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “Do you think there’s a chance she went there? What if she has information on whoever tried to poison her? If I were a PI that’s the first place I would go. Unless she’s feeling terrible, in which case I would go home and go to bed.”

  Lance stuffed his phone back in his pocket. He linked his arm through mine. “This is why we make a perfect team. I like the way you think. Let’s go.”

  “To Medford?” I asked.

  Lance was dragging me down the street. “Yes, of course. We’ll stop by my place and get my car. It’s only a ten-minute drive.”

  I wanted to go with him. The fact that Megan had been released from the hospital gave me an uneasy feeling. I looked at my watch. It was still early. Carlos and Ramiro would likely be asleep at least for another hour or so. “Okay, but I need to be back before too long,” I said to Lance.

  He paid no attention and broke into a sprint. “Yes, yes. I know you don’t want to miss out on a minute with that delicious husband of yours. Trust me, I wouldn’t want to either. I’ll have you back and in his arms in no time.”

  We ran the rest of the way to Lance’s house. By the time we got there I was gasping for breath and dewy with sweat.

  “Hop in,” Lance said, when we made it to his car.

  He sped out of Ashland and onto I-5. Thankfully, the village sat in early slumber. Otherwise, I would have been terrified that he would mow down a pedestrian. “Lance, slow down. We don’t have to fly there,” I cautioned as he pressed the gas pedal.

  “I have a bad feeling about this, Juliet. We need to get there quickly. In fact, why don’t you call that puppy-dog police detective and tell him we’re en route to Medford.” Lance liked to tease me about Thomas holding a torch for me.

  “Do you think that’s a good idea? Maybe we should wait until we get to her office and see if she’s even there.”

  Lance kept his eyes glued to the road. “Suit yourself.”

  It only took eight minutes to get to Megan’s office, which was located in a nondescript strip mall on the outskirts of town with a tattoo shop on one side and a bail bond office on the other.

  “This is it.” Lance jumped out of the car.

  “I can’t picture you opting to hire Megan in a place like this,” I said, stepping over what looked like the remains of a half-eaten hamburger that was teeming with flies.

  “She’s the best. Sometimes the best doesn’t come in a pretty package.”

  We approached Megan’s office. The door was open partway. Lance knocked twice. “Anyone home?”

  No answer.

  “Megan, it’s your favorite client,” Lance called.

  No response.

  He looked to me and then kicked the door open with his foot. We stepped inside. The interior office wasn’t much of an improvement from the exterior. I squinted in the dull light reflecting from a 1970s brass light fixture. There was an oversized oak desk, a burnt-orange couch, bookshelves, and dented filing cabinets.

  “She’s not here,” I said to Lance who had walked to the other side of the desk.

  His pupils grew huge. “I hate to say it, Juliet, but I told you so.” He motioned for me to come closer.

  I had a bad feeling as I moved closer to the desk.

  Lance pointed to the floor where Megan’s body was sprawled on the green shag carpet. He tried not to gag. “Call the police.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  I blinked rapidly. Was this really happening? Megan was definitely dead. Her face was a garish blue. Had she succumbed to the effects of the poison she consumed last night or had the killer followed her here? The thought made my knees weak. I grabbed the edge of the desk to steady myself.

  Lance stepped around her body and walked back to the desk. He wrapped a silk handkerchief around his hand, removed a pencil from a canister on the desk, and used it to flip through a stack of files.

  “What are you doing?” I hissed.

  “Looking for evidence. This is our only chance before the police come.”

  “Are you crazy? You can’t touch anything.” I scanned the office. It hadn’t been updated since the 1970s. Dark, fake-wood paneling covered every wall. Thick vomit-green shag carpet lined the floor. There were bookshelves stuffed with dusty paperback true-crime novels and private-investigation manuals. A cheap cabinet housed binoculars, walkie-talkies, and camera equipment.

  He held the pencil with the tips of his fingers. “Why do you think I wrapped this?”

  “That’s not what I mean,
Lance. We shouldn’t touch anything. This is a crime scene.” Megan’s desk was tidy, minus a stack of old takeout containers and plastic silverware.

  “And I am a client. Megan might have damning evidence in this stack of paperwork. This is our one chance,” he repeated, and continued to look through the stack. After a minute, he stopped and used the handkerchief to remove one of the files from the stack. “Aha!”

  “What?”

  Lance motioned me over. “Get your phone.”

  The sound of sirens wailed in the distance. I wavered.

  “Hurry, we don’t have much time.”

  I intentionally kept my eyes focused on Lance as I made my way past Megan’s body. I couldn’t believe she was dead. There was a faint hint of stale cigarettes in the dingy office. I wondered if Megan had been a smoker or if the fake-wood paneling had absorbed years of smoke.

  Lance lifted the edge of the file folder with the handkerchief. “Look, these are Megan’s notes on Leo and his henchman lawyer, Jarvis. Get your phone. Take a few pictures—quick. We can look at them later.”

  For some reason, I followed Lance’s demands and snapped pictures. Within minutes the sirens were right outside the door. Lance shoved the folder back in the stack and we both returned to the door.

  Everything was a blur from that point on. The Medford police and EMS workers attended to Megan’s body. Lance and I hung around outside until Thomas arrived on the scene. He was accompanied by Detective Kerry who was not pleased to see us.

  “You two, again?” She shook her head in disbelief. “Do you have a police scanner or something?” Her narrow heels dug into the shag carpet.

  Lance stepped forward. His shoulders arched with pride. “Actually, Juliet and I discovered the body. You should be thanking us.”

  “Thanking you?” She looked to Thomas for support.

  Thomas shrugged. “I’ll take care of them if you want to check in with the Medford first responders.”