Another One Bites the Crust (A Bakeshop Mystery)

by Ellie Alexander

  Thomas pulled me over to an alcove with ivy snaking up toward the roof. Climbing roses formed an arch above us. The vines had yet to bud, but I knew that sweet, red blossoms would soon burst open. “The Professor didn’t have a choice. It’s not his call, but he’s doing everything he can. He made a solid case for keeping Lance at the station here on the plaza. Neither of us want to believe that Lance is a killer, but he made it clear to me that we have to follow protocol. In fact, it’s even more important that we follow protocol given the personal connections to the suspect.”

  “Suspect? You mean Lance—our friend?”

  “Look, Jules, this is a delicate situation. When word gets out that we have Lance in custody it’s going to be mayhem around here.” He nudged his head in the direction of the crowd gasping as the boa constrictor slithered up his master’s neck. “Lance is a fixture at OSF. He’s probably the most recognized person in Ashland. There’s going to be some serious fallout. The Professor is worried about what the news might do to ticket sales. Think of all of the businesses that will be impacted. This isn’t just Ashland news. This will be national news. Can’t you see the headline now?”

  He had a point. There had been quite a few news vans at Lithia Park earlier. Lance’s arrest would definitely make for sensational headlines, but in my experience things like this tended to bring gawkers to town. If anything, Ashland might be inundated with people coming to steal a peek of the drama.

  “So no one knows?” I asked.

  “Not yet. It’s dicey. That’s why he pressed to have Lance placed in custody at our office on the plaza. If Lance gets booked at the main precinct and the media get wind of it this place will be swarming with press. The Professor is working his connections on the down low. The Medford detective who is replacing him is very Type A. She isn’t even sure that I should stay on the investigation. Basically, she’s treating me like her lackey for the moment. That’s fine. I’ll run errands as long as she doesn’t pull me from the team. Hopefully, we’ll have the forensics report by morning. We’re holding Lance on circumstantial evidence at the moment. Best-case scenario, the report clears him and we let him go before anyone is the wiser.”

  “And if not?”

  “If not, your friend is going to need a good lawyer.”

  The doors opened to the theater and a throng of people pushed toward us. Thomas grabbed my hand and we joined the line. There were so many more things I wanted to ask, but we were ushered to our seats. I leaned over to Mom and mouthed, “Did you hear about Lance?”

  Her eyes darted to the Professor who sat with his arm draped around her shoulder. She nodded and mouthed, “We’ll talk after the show.”

  In seasons past, Lance would take the stage to introduce the show, cast, and director. He relished the opportunity to welcome everyone to his gleaming town and award-winning theater. I hadn’t been around for one of his opening-night performances, but from what I had heard, they were legendary. He would give a synopsis of each upcoming show along with a long-winded soliloquy about the company’s commitment to the “work” and the “craft.” Mom told me that one year his opening speech ran longer than the actual show.

  Tonight, instead of Lance, the director of Antony and Cleopatra, a woman about Mom’s age with long curly hair down to her waist, came out to the center stage. A single spotlight illuminated her. “Sorry to disappoint. I know many of you make plans months in advance to be here for opening night and to hear our esteemed artistic director, Lance Rousseau, give you a rundown of the upcoming season, but unfortunately he has taken ill and can’t be with us tonight.”

  A collective gasp sounded in the audience.

  “I know. I know. You’re stuck with me.” She waved both of her arms to the side and right on cue the spotlight expanded to fill the stage. The entire company stood behind her. “And these guys,” she added with a laugh.

  This garnered a huge cheer and applause from the audience.

  “Meet your cast for this season,” the director continued. “We’re thrilled to be bringing you world-class performances of some of Shakespeare’s classics like tonight’s performance of Antony and Cleopatra along with some incredible modern shows and two musicals. Here in Ashland, Oregon, just north of the California border, you’re going to dance with Cinderella under the stars this summer and we’re taking you on a wild ride into space later this season with Exoplanet, which was written by one of our very own actor/directors.”

  The woman seated next to me riffled through the pages of her playbill. “That’s this one.” She placed the paper on the armrest between us and pointed to a synopsis of the forthcoming show. “It’s supposed to be amazing. Dystopian meets Star Trek.”

  “Sounds great,” I replied.

  She flipped to the front of the playbill where there was a headshot of Lance and his welcome letter. “Can you believe he’s sick? My friends and I come up from Northern California every year and Lance is always here. He’s signed every one of my playbills. I don’t know what I should do? Do I have the director sign it or wait for him? He’s got to be around this weekend, don’t you think?”

  “I’m sure.” Maybe Thomas was right. What would Lance’s adoring fans do if they learned that he was behind bars?

  The show started a few minutes later. I had a hard time concentrating on the performance because I was intent on watching Tracy and Antony’s understudy to see if there was anything strange between the two of them. They were both professionals and if news of Lance’s arrest and finding Antony’s body had made it to the cast they didn’t show any signs. Tracy moving her body in rhythm with her fellow actor had me believing that they really were star-crossed lovers. The play reminded me of an adult version of Romeo and Juliet. Only instead of the anguish of two lovesick teenagers, Antony and Cleopatra captured the angst and aching that go along with mature love. My thoughts strayed to Carlos. Our time together had been magical, but maybe like Shakespeare’s ill-fated romance we weren’t destined to last.

  When the performance finished, the audience jumped to its feet and showered the cast with thunderous applause, delighted hollers, and two extra encore bows.

  “That was wonderful, wasn’t it?” Mom asked, standing and wrapping her pashmina shawl around her shoulders.

  “Indeed, no one writes a romantic tragedy like the Bard,” the Professor seconded.

  I drifted away from the conversation momentarily as Brock and Thad appeared at the side of the entrance to the Elizabethan stage. Brock was fixing a broken light stand. Thad held a screwdriver in one hand and was motioning with it. Had something gone wrong with the set or were they fighting?

  The Professor cleared his throat, jolting me back. “Might I interest you young ones in a bite to eat or a nightcap? We have much to discuss, I do believe.” He raised one brow and gave me a knowing look.

  “I’m always game.” Thomas waited while I gathered my purse. “As long as there’s food involved.”

  Mom nudged him in the waist. “You have never changed on the food front. I remember your mother constantly lamenting about not being able to keep you fed, especially when you were playing football.”

  “That’s still true today, Mrs. Capshaw.” Thomas grinned.

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Don’t give him that look, young lady. You were no better. We called her the bottomless pit,” she said to the Professor.

  “Well, in that case I daresay we must find these poor starving creatures nourishment immediately.” The Professor had abandoned his usual tweed jacket in favor of a more refined classic sport coat and slacks. His tie revealed his true nature with tiny busts of Shakespeare and the words “Love all, trust a few, do no wrong.” The quote summed up the Professor’s approach to life and felt especially true this evening. Who should I trust? Everyone associated with Antony had been lying about something.

  “Shall we?” He bowed to Mom. She chuckled. “Oh, Doug, sometimes you’re too much.”

  I appreciated his attempt to keep the mood light, espe
cially while we left the theater. There was no point in bemoaning Lance’s situation until we could talk in private. Moonlight cast a hazy glow on the bricks as we headed down Pioneer Street. I was glad that I had worn a cashmere sweater and found myself rubbing my shoulders to stay warm.

  Thomas took off his jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders.

  “Thanks. You didn’t have to do that.” It was true, however, that my numbing fingertips appreciated the gesture.

  “What, and face the wrath of the Professor? Or worse, my mom—if we happen to bump into her? I’ve been well trained in my gentlemanly duties.”

  I put on his coat and laughed. “I seem to remember you scarfing down cookies by the handful in the high school cafeteria and getting in trouble from the lunch lady for your slovenly ways.”

  “Me? Never.” Thomas kicked a pebble off the sidewalk.

  His coat was still warm from his body heat and smelled of his cologne, which had a hint of menthol. When we dated, I kept one of his sweatshirts under my pillow. The familiar scent took me back to being seventeen. We had had many fun times as well as our fair share of sad days intermixed. Thomas had been by my side after my dad died, and I could never repay him for his kindness during the darkest hours of my life. I liked the fact that he knew the seventeen-year-old version of me with chipped red fingernail polish and intentionally ripped jeans. We shared a past. He knew me when my father was alive, and for that fact alone he would always hold a special piece of my heart. There’s something about people who know our history. Thomas had seen me on my knees sobbing with grief. He knew the girl with puffy eyes and a runny nose who missed her father so desperately that it hurt to breathe sometimes. He also knew the girl who could eat a hot dog in two bites and danced spontaneously in the Lithia fountains at midnight. We had spent countless hours dreaming about our future on the benches next to the duck pond. Thomas had always wanted to work in law enforcement. Only back in those days, he envisioned working a beat in a big city like Chicago or New York. Ironically, I had been the one who left. While Thomas fantasized about life outside of Ashland, I actually experienced it, and on such a grander scale than I ever could have imagined as a teenager.

  I liked that we each held memories of one another that no one else could share. But I also knew that he wanted more. He had said that he would wait, but I didn’t want him to put his dreams on hold for me.

  “Jules?” Thomas’s voice shook me from my thoughts.

  “Huh?”

  “The door. Are you coming inside?”

  I looked up to see him holding open the heavy wooden door to Puck’s Pub for me. Mom and the Professor were already chatting with the owner. “Yeah, right. Sorry.”

  “Your mom is right about some things—some people never change.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I stepped inside.

  He closed the door behind him. “You. Ms. Daydreamer.”

  Before I could come up with a smart retort the owner showed us to a table near the back of the warm and cheery pub. The owner went over the daily specials and suggested we sample a taste of the new beer recently tapped—the Bard’s Best—a chocolate stout brewed by a new microbrewery in town in honor of the new theater season.

  We agreed to a taste. The owner left to pour us samples and Thomas handed out menus. “The special stew sounds good.”

  I couldn’t think about food. I wanted to talk about Lance, what the Professor knew, and how I could help my friend, but the owner returned with a tray of tasting glasses. We each took one. I held mine up to the light. The beer was black as night and tasted of chocolate and a hint of something spicy. I wondered if it was the hops they’d used. A while back, I had met a female brewer from Leavenworth who had shared some insider tips on brewing and how to judge whether a beer was good. The Bard’s Best had a hearty flavor and smooth finish.

  The Professor toasted with his tasting glass. “Shall I order a round for the table?”

  “Yes,” Mom said. “I really like this and I don’t usually like dark beers.”

  “I agree.” I finished my taster and set it on the table. The old-English pub was filled with the after-theater crowd. Mouthwatering smells of garlic and onions wafted from the kitchen. A minstrel group, much like the band that had performed at Lance’s party, warmed up on the wooden stage. Beer flowed from oak taps behind the bar as the steady hum of chatter grew louder and louder.

  Once we put in our order for beer and food, the Professor leaned his elbow on the table and met my eyes. “I sense that you are ready to get to the matter at hand, am I correct?”

  Was I that obvious? “I’m worried about Lance.”

  He stroked his beard with one hand. “Yes, I believe that we all share your concerns.”

  “Thomas said that he’s in custody?” My hands were finally starting to thaw, but I kept them in Thomas’s jacket pockets anyway.

  “Yes, correct again, but I assure you that that is as much for his protection as for anything else.”

  I looked to Mom. “For his protection?”

  She shook her head.

  The Professor nodded. “As you know Lance is Ashland’s closest thing to a celebrity.”

  “Not according to Richard Lord,” Mom chimed in as our drinks arrived.

  “True, my dear.” A slow smile spread across the Professor’s stubbly face. “Aside from our resident Lord, Lance is one of the most popular figures in town. Keeping him in custody should help ensure that there will be no chance of it looking like he’s being given preferential treatment, and as precaution for the fallout that could occur should news spread of his detainment. Due to potential conflicts of interest, I’ve also removed myself from the investigation.”

  “That’s what Thomas said.” I sipped my frothy beer and filled Mom and the Professor in on what I had learned thus far from both Vera and Judy. “I just can’t picture either of them having the strength to drag Antony’s body into the pond. Vera was furious with Antony and she was the last person to see him alive. Judy had traded her silence for special treatment. They both could have done it, I suppose, and then there’s Tracy. What would her motive be for killing him? To keep her pregnancy quiet?” I asked when I finished.

  The Professor considered this for a minute. “My, you have not had idle hands today, have you?” His hand gently stroked Mom’s shoulder. “Remember, rage can do strange things to our human limitations. It’s possible that one of these women could have moved his body. Although that still leaves us with the question of why. And, of course, there is always the possibility that one of them was working with an accomplice.”

  “Or that Lance was the accomplice,” Thomas added in.

  I wanted to kick him under the table. Instead, I gave him my best glare. Thomas threw his hands up. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just saying it’s an avenue we have to explore.”

  “Exactly,” the Professor agreed. “Do not fret, Juliet. I understand your concerns and I share them.”

  As always, the Professor’s astute ability to read me and those around him was clear. I had often wondered if it was an innate trait. Had he been drawn to his line of work because of skill and ease with people or was it the result of years on the police force? Probably a combination of the two.

  “What about Thad and Brock?” I asked. “They both have the physical strength, but what motive?”

  The Professor’s eyes twinkled as he waited for me to continue.

  “I mean motives aside, they were each definitely strong enough, right? And as set designer and stagehand one of them might have keys to the secret stairs leading to the duck pond, right? Not to mention John Duncan? Who is he and what’s his connection to Antony?” I could hear my voice becoming shriller as I regurgitated the questions that had been assaulting my brain. “And the DVD? Why was there an empty DVD case next to Antony’s body? What if whatever is on the DVD implicates the killer?”

  Mom sighed. “Doug, look what you’ve encouraged. My sweet daughter obsessing over a murder
investigation.”

  He placed his hand over his heart. “My dearest, I do apologize, but we can agree on the fact that she has a certain knack for my line of work, doesn’t she? Question everything. That’s the first rule I teach our young men and women in blue.”

  Mom gave me her best “mom” face. “That may be true, but I don’t want you to stress about this or put yourself in harm’s way.”

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Capshaw—I’ll never let Jules come to harm.” Thomas’s voice was husky. Fortunately, the food arrived at that moment. Thomas dug right into his stew.

  “What’s going to happen next?” I picked at the hummus plate I had ordered. Mom caught my eye and gave me a look of concern.

  The Professor removed his arm from Mom’s shoulder and tucked his napkin into his shirt. “It will depend on the lab results. Detective Kerry should have them in the next few days. Until then, I’m going to check in with my sources. The missing DVD is most intriguing to me as well. I think a visit to headquarters after dinner would be advised. Thomas, would you escort Jules to meet with Detective Kerry tonight?”

  Mom made a clucking sound. “Hmm.”

  “I think sharing this information with Detective Kerry will help you release stress, yes?” The Professor looked to me for confirmation. I nodded. Then he squeezed Mom’s shoulder. “As the Bard says, ‘Come what come may, Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.’”

  I didn’t stay much longer. The hummus plate tasted dull and lifeless. I knew it wasn’t because of the food. Puck’s Pub had some of the best pub fare in town, but until I figured out a way to clear Lance I couldn’t concentrate on anything.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Do you want your jacket back?” I asked Thomas as he held the door open for me and waited for me to step outside.

  “No, keep it.”

  It was a short walk to the police station, but I was happy to have an extra layer of warmth. Nighttime temperatures still dipped into the thirties. It wouldn’t be until after Easter or maybe closer to Mother’s Day when the steady evening warming would begin. “What’s Detective Kerry like?” I asked as we passed a sleeping Torte.