Another One Bites the Crust

by Ellie Alexander

  “Eat,” Mom insisted. She returned to the oven to check on the bread. “Are you free to come with me to A Rose by Any Other Name this afternoon? I want your opinion on the wedding bouquets.”

  “Of course. Count me in.” I studied the whiteboard to see what orders Mom had already completed. “Have you and the Professor come up with any other venues yet?”

  She sighed. “No. We keep striking out. We talked last night—before everything happened with Lance—about scaling back the guest list, but neither of us feel right about that. Ashland brought us together. Ashland should be there to celebrate with us.”

  “What about one of the wineries on the ridge?” I asked, biting into the muffin. It was light as air with sweet and spicy pecans.

  “They’re booked. Summer is peak season for tourists, so between that, private events, and other weddings, everything is full.” She lowered the oven temp and reached for a mixing bowl. “We could push the date back. I’m sure we could find something next summer, but neither of us wants to wait.”

  I savored the muffin. “There has to be something.” She was right about space in Ashland being at a premium during the summer season. Lance would have gladly offered up one of the theaters or the bricks for the wedding, but tickets for each production had been on sale for months. Many of the summer shows were already sold out. Weddings were also big business in Ashland from June through September. Brides had discovered that Ashland made a perfect destination wedding. Guests could take in a show at OSF, a whitewater rafting trip on the Umpqua River, or a day trip to the Oregon Coast while in town for the celebration.

  “There’s always Lithia Park.” She cubed butter and added it to the mixing bowl.

  The warm muffin had hit the spot. I finished it and then decided I would start on the daily soup special. I had been craving chicken tortilla soup. It reminded me of spring and Carlos. “Why not. The park could be fun. What about a giant, community picnic?”

  “Maybe.” She measured sugar.

  “You’re not feeling it?”

  “It’s not that. You know me, I’m not fancy. I love the idea of a picnic, but I was hoping for something a bit more stylish for our wedding. Not Lance stylish.” She grimaced.

  I laughed. “Oh no. Please no!”

  “Never, but something with a touch of elegance.”

  “We’ll find something. Don’t worry.” I thought through some of my favorite places as I went to the walk-in. Last winter I had catered an event at Lake of the Woods. The lakeside resort had a rustic lodge and plenty of cabins for out-of-town guests, but it was a popular vacation spot for families. Many families returned year after year to rent the same cabin. It might already be booked, but it was worth a shot. I would call them later this morning and check. I filled a bowl with organic chicken breasts, cilantro, corn, onions, peppers, and tomatoes and returned to the kitchen.

  I started by chopping onions, garlic, and peppers. I tossed them in a pan with a healthy glug of olive oil and sautéed them over medium heat. What other venue could there be for Mom and the Professor’s upcoming nuptials? There was Emigrant Park, with a waterslide for the kiddos and plenty of shady space, but Mom didn’t sound thrilled with the idea of a park wedding. I glanced outside as the onions, garlic, and peppers began to sweat. The smell opened up my sinuses. What if we shut down the plaza for the wedding? I wondered if the Professor could get authorization for something like that?

  Andy and Stephanie arrived as I turned the heat to low and returned to the cutting board. “Morning,” I called as I chopped the cilantro stalks, reserved the leafy foliage, and added the chopped stems to the mixture on the stove. Then I added corn and set a pot of water to boil for the tomatoes.

  “How are the show tunes?” I asked Stephanie as she trudged into the kitchen.

  Mom raised an eyebrow. “Show tunes?”

  “Don’t ask,” Stephanie mumbled.

  “Stephanie has a neighbor who is apparently a big fan of show tunes,” I said to Mom.

  Mom stifled a laugh. Stephanie shot daggers at me. “Don’t even say the words ‘show tune’ around me.”

  “Sorry. I take it that means the … music continued last night.”

  Stephanie washed her hands in the sink. Her nails were each painted black with white skulls on her index fingers. “All flipping night long.”

  “That is the worst, honey,” Mom said with sincere empathy. I thought Stephanie might bite her head off, but instead she looked like she might cry.

  “It’s the worst,” she repeated, and wiped something from underneath her eye that made her black eyeliner smudge.

  “Do you want go home and try to get some sleep now?” Mom walked over and offered Stephanie a hug, which shockingly Stephanie accepted.

  She blinked rapidly and forcibly wiped her eyes. “No. I’m here. Plus, it never stops.”

  “Shoot, I meant to find my old earplugs for you, but got distracted with Lance last night.”

  “Don’t worry, Steph, I’ll have coffee for you in two minutes,” Andy called from the espresso machine. “And here’s my question. Why don’t you call the police? Couldn’t your neighbor get a noise violation?”

  Mom perked up. “Yes, do you want me to talk to Doug?”

  Stephanie brushed a hair from her face. “It’s not loud, it’s just constant.”

  “Bummer.” Andy steamed milk. “How was the bash last night, boss?”

  “The party was fantastic, but the rest of the night not so much. Did you see Bethany?”

  Andy held a skewer stick in his hand that he used for his latte art. “No. Why?”

  “She said something about meeting friends at the pub. I didn’t know if that meant you two.” I intentionally looked at Steph, too. “Your marzipans were the star of the show. People were literally falling over each other to get a glimpse of them. When Bethany gets in she’ll show you the pictures, but Sweetened magazine and a bunch of other huge baking outlets shared her posts. You’re going to have to start a side business.”

  Mom clapped. “We’ll be able to say that we knew you when.”

  Stephanie shrugged off the compliment. I went on to tell them about what happened after the party.

  Andy whistled as he delivered a cup of coffee to a downtrodden Stephanie. “That’s crazy. They can’t find the body?”

  I appreciated that he obviously assumed that Lance was telling the truth.

  Stephanie didn’t look as convinced. She gulped the coffee like someone who had been lost in the desert and had stumbled upon fresh water. “It sounds like a freaking publicity stunt to me.”

  Her words gave me pause. Why hadn’t I considered that? What if Lance had staged Antony’s murder to get more press for the launch of the season? My stomach lurched at the thought. He wouldn’t pull a prank like that on me … Would he? It was hardly as if OSF needed more press. Many performances (especially for the outdoor summer shows) sold out the day tickets were released. OSF received write-ups and features in national and international magazines. Why would Lance need publicity, unless it was self-serving?

  Mom bit the corner of her lip. “A publicity stunt.” She caught my eye. I knew she was thinking the same thing.

  “Yeah. That kind of stuff is all the rage. It’s like flash mobs. Pranks are huge on the Internet. Stupid frat guys making each other run naked down the streets. That kind of thing.”

  “Hey, I watch a couple of those shows.” Andy pouted. “Pranks are great comedy.”

  “I rest my case,” Stephanie said.

  My palms began to sweat. No way. Lance wouldn’t use me or the Professor and Thomas in a prank, would he? Filing a false report of a crime could mean that Lance was in big trouble. I wanted to believe him, but my confidence eroded as I thought about his constant need for attention.

  Andy distracted me when he came into the kitchen with coffee for me and Mom. “I gave Steph a straight shot, but I want you two to try my new creation.” He handed us white ceramic mugs brimming with coffee and steamed milk.


  I took a whiff of mine. “Am I smelling flowers?”

  “Maybe.” Andy’s eyes twinkled. “Try it.”

  The coffee was a lovely beige color that reminded me of a sandy beach. I took a taste. The floral scent invaded my pores, and I could swear I tasted a hint of rose. It blended beautifully with the milk and chocolaty undertones of the coffee.

  As if reading my mind, Mom exclaimed, “I’m tasting rose, aren’t I?”

  “Me, too.”

  Andy beamed. “You guys are good. Yep. I added a splash of rose water and a touch of vanilla bean.”

  “It’s wonderful,” Mom said, taking another sip.

  “Agreed. It’s like spring in a cup.” I glanced at the freshly painted walls. We had spruced up the kitchen with an opaque teal three shades lighter than the dining room. The new paint brightened the small space and matched the springtime sky.

  Stephanie frowned. “I want to try it.”

  “You asked for a coffee IV, a coffee IV you get,” Andy said, pointing to the nearly empty mug she was holding. “I call that the show tune stopper. It has six shots. Yeah, you heard me correctly, six shots. If that sucker doesn’t get Oklahoma! out of your head then nothing will.”

  Stephanie opened her mouth and took a shot of the coffee. “There. Done.” She stuck out her tongue. “Now give me some of the good stuff.”

  “Hey, all my stuff is good,” Andy protested.

  “You know what I mean,” Stephanie replied.

  Andy wisely dropped it and went to make Stephanie a vanilla rose latte. I returned to my soup. The veggies gave the kitchen a wonderful spicy aroma. My pot of water had come to a rolling boil so I cut small slits into the tomatoes and dropped them into the pot. After about a minute I removed them from the water and peeled off the skins with ease. The trick worked like a charm.

  Next, I squeezed the skinned tomatoes into a Dutch oven. Juice ran down my hands as I tossed chunks of the bright tomatoes into the pan. There is no substitute for fresh tomatoes. This soup can be made any time of the year with canned tomatoes, but vine-ripe tomatoes would give it a depth that can’t be found in a can. I added the chopped cilantro stems and sautéed veggies. Then I poured in homemade chicken stock, diced chicken, corn, and an assortment of spices like chili powder and cumin. I would let those flavors simmer and marry for an hour or two on low heat before adding beans.

  By the time Sterling and Bethany showed up for their shifts the kitchen was overflowing with pastries and my soup was bubbling happily on the stove. This was the best hour in the bakeshop, when the kitchen was fully alive with flavor. Our small but mighty staff drizzled chocolate over strawberries and sliced bread for paninis in harmony. Bethany chattered about the party and read aloud comments from people who had seen her social media posts. Her glow faded when I told them what happened after the party.

  “Lance is no killer,” Sterling said, pushing up the sleeves of his hoodie before sneaking a peek at my soup.

  Mom bustled past him with a tray of cinnamon pecan muffins. “Exactly.” She tapped his sleeve with her free hand. “I keep telling Juliet not to worry too much. Doug will get to the bottom of this.”

  While she filled the pastry case, I got Sterling started on making tortillas from scratch. We would fry them and use a pizza cutter to slice them into strips for garnish on my soup. “You worked closely with Lance when we were on the cruise,” I said to him in a low voice, and handed him a canister of flour.

  “Yeah, why?” He made a pile of flour on the island. Tortilla dough requires just a few ingredients—flour, water, a pinch of salt, and lard. The magic is kneading the dough into a pliable soft ball, dividing it into eight equal portions, and then rolling them into flat round circles. Once customers tasted our soft and chewy homemade tortillas they never purchased mass-produced again.

  “I wondered if you noticed anything out of the ordinary. When you e-mailed me updates you mentioned that Lance was driving everyone crazy. I didn’t give it much thought at the time because—”

  “Because that’s Lance,” Sterling interjected.

  “Exactly, but now with everything that’s happened the last couple of days, I’m wondering if it could be more. What if he really was starting to have a breakdown when we left?”

  Sterling added water, salt, and lard to the mound of flour in front of him and began kneading it together. He was astute beyond his years and I could tell that he was considering my point as he flexed the sticky mixture into a dough. “You know, you could be right. But I’m not exactly sure what was different about him while you were gone. There was something, though.”

  I sighed. “Yeah, right?” I trusted Sterling’s instincts. His ability to read people was a gift, especially for someone his age.

  “Do you really think that Lance would fake a murder? That’s pretty out there.” Sterling patted the ball of dough between his hands and then broke off eight chunks. “I mean, that’s low and cruel.”

  “And Lance isn’t cruel.” I reached for olive oil and added a few glugs to a clean sauté pan. In addition to using the tortillas for a topping for my soup we would use them for sandwich wraps. Since I was in a spicy mood, I decided I would have Sterling make up big batches of salsa and guacamole. For our lunch special we would pair my chicken tortilla soup with guacamole wraps filled with shredded lettuce, cilantro, salsa, jack cheese, and beans.

  “Except.” Sterling held up his index finger, which was covered in flour. “What if Antony was in on it?”

  “What?” I nearly spilled oil down the front of my apron.

  “Think about it, Jules. Lance is always trying to rope you and anyone else he can convince to get on stage, not to mention creating drama. I can’t see him faking something like this unless Antony was in on it. He made it very clear when you were gone that he didn’t like Antony.”

  “Yeah. He made that clear to me, too.”

  Sterling rolled each of the smaller pieces of dough into balls. “But what’s that saying from Shakespeare? The lady doth protest too much?”

  “You mean you think that was an act?” He had a valid point. Lance had been over-the-top (even for him) about his low regard for Antony. What if was an act? Was Antony hiding out in Lance’s basement right now? If that was the case, I might have to smack him the next time I saw him.

  “It’s a possibility. Lance is familiar with how to stage a drama, you know.”

  Vera had mentioned wanting to kill Lance last night. What if she learned about their scheme? Lance had seemed genuinely fed up with Antony, but then again, acting was his business. He could be playing me. I sighed and tried to concentrate on baking.

  Sterling tossed one of the dough balls in the air and caught it. “How thin should I roll these?”

  It reminded me of when Carlos had visited. He and Sterling hit it off instantly. I figured it was due to the fact that they both had an internal intensity. For Carlos, his intensity came through in his passion for food. With Sterling, it was his intensity for people. If you were Sterling’s friend he would do anything for you. Carlos was at his best when teaching young chefs, and Sterling was eager to learn. It had been a good combination and experience for both of them, except for the fact that Carlos had taught his young protégé his repertoire of kitchen pranks. I could hear his sultry voice in my head. “Julieta, the food, it must be fun. Let your team play and the food will thank you.”

  I pushed the memory away and showed Sterling how to roll the tortillas into quarter-inch-thin circles. Then I fried an example for him and broke it in half for each of us to taste. Carlos’s priority in the kitchen was infusing life and energy into whatever he put on the plate. For me, if I taught my staff one thing, it would be the power of taste. It never failed to amaze me how many chefs skipped this imperative step. Without tasting the final product or a work in progress there’s no way of knowing whether a recipe is balanced or if it lacks flavor.

  “What do you think?” I asked Sterling.

  He chewed the warm flat bre
ad. “It’s good. Totally different than the tortillas you buy in the store. I don’t get it. Where does the flavor come from? This is just water and flour.”

  “Don’t forget about the lard.” I winked. “And a nice dose of olive oil doesn’t hurt, either.”

  He folded his bite into a square and popped it in his mouth. “How many of these should I make?”

  “At least ten dozen. Wraps are usually a hit and I have a feeling we might see more of the gossip crowd today.” I went to the walk-in and returned with avocados, red onions, peppers, cilantro, limes, garlic, and tomatoes. “You want to make the gauc?”

  “Put me to work.” He tossed a lime.

  For the guacamole, I instructed him to finely dice onions, peppers, garlic, cilantro, and tomatoes. Then he could soften the avocados with a fork and add a healthy squeeze of fresh lime juice, salt, and pepper. Mix it all together and serve it on our homemade tortillas with cheese and beans. Delish.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about Sterling’s theory that Antony was in on the gig as I checked on Stephanie’s progress and sent Bethany out on the morning bread route. By the time we opened I had convinced myself that Sterling was right. The second I had a break I was going to go hunt Lance down and throttle him. As anticipated Torte was bustling the minute we opened the front doors. Everyone wanted to talk about what was going on at Lithia Park. Rumors swirled throughout the dining room along with the scent of our apple turnovers and bread pudding.

  Thankfully, Mom fielded questions in the front. She came into the kitchen with two empty pastry trays not long after we flipped the sign on the front door to OPEN. Mopping her brow with a dish towel, she piled more cookies and muffins onto the empty tray. “I hate to say it, but Lance’s phantom body is good for business.”

  “Mom, that’s terrible.” I scolded her with a frown.

  She shrugged and pointed to the picked-over pastry case. “I’m not suggesting it as a marketing strategy, but you can’t deny that anytime something out of the ordinary happens in Ashland people eat their weight in pastry.”