Trouble Is Brewing--A Bakeshop Mini-Mystery

by Ellie Alexander

  Chapter Six

  “We’re doing the soft opening tomorrow?” I asked as I siphoned a taster from the clarifying tank. The liquid in the long turkey baster shimmered against the stainless steel tank. I took a sip, swirling the golden-colored ale in my mouth before swallowing. “Did you dry hop this?”

  Garrett let out a low whistle. “I’m impressed. Hans told me you have an extraordinary nose.” He waved me over to the side of the tank and opened a viewing window. “Check it out.” Hops floated on the top of the beer, bobbing like sea lions on the ocean.

  Typically, hops are added during the boiling process. Dry hopping is a unique way to infuse a beer with extra hop flavor and aroma. Instead of hopping during the brewing process, in dry hopping, fresh hops are added in after the beer’s been fermenting for several days. The taste is unmistakable.

  “This really has a bite,” I said, handing Garrett the taster so I could get a closer look at the floating hops.

  “Not too bitter, is it?” Garrett asked. “I’ve been working on how long to leave them in. The last batch I left in too long, and I wasn’t thrilled with the flavor profile. I mean, I drank it, but it wasn’t my best effort.”

  Garrett had spoken a universal truth among brewers—no matter the taste or flavor, there’s an unspoken code that if you pour a pint, you finish it. Over the years, I had put up with my fair share of undrinkable beers, thanks to the code. I shut the hatch and stepped off the ladder. “Can I have another taste?”

  Garrett handed me the taster.

  Taking another sip, I let the beer settle on my tongue. When I led brewery tours at Der Keller, this was always my favorite part. I quizzed guests on what they tasted. Usually the first thing that people noticed was that the beer wasn’t carbonated. Carbonation is the final step in the brewing process. Even without a frothy head or bubbles, once a beer has been clarified, it’s remarkably drinkable. Farm-style beers from England and France are often served uncarbonated.

  The first pass of Garrett’s beer left my tongue tingling from intense citrus flavors like grapefruit and oranges. The beer had a nice hoppy finish without being too bitter.

  “It’s so clean,” I said to Garrett. “Tons of fruit on the front, but no aftertaste. Very nice.”

  Garrett hid a smile. “Thanks. I’ve been perfecting this recipe for a couple years. I still have one more batch of hops to throw in.”

  “You’ve done a great job. This is one of the better beers I’ve tasted in a long time. And that’s saying a lot. What are you calling it?”

  “Citrus IPA.”

  “Really?” I raised my eyebrows.

  “Yeah.” Garrett looked confused. “Why?”

  No wonder Hans said that Garrett needed my help.

  “A beer this good deserves a name worthy of it.” I twisted the wedding ring on my finger. For some reason, I hadn’t been able to take it off yet.

  “I never thought of that.” Garrett removed his chemistry goggles and cleaned them on his shirt.

  “That’s why you hired me. We’ll come up with something.”

  Returning the goggles to his face, Garrett climbed to the top of the shiny silver tank and peeked inside the access window. “One more round of hops, and we should be ready to keg.”

  “What’s the plan for food?”

  “Food?” Garrett looked at me as if I were speaking a foreign language.

  “You know, food for the pub. What are we serving with the beer?”

  Garrett climbed off the ladder and pushed the goggles back on his forehead. His dark hair had a slight curl. “I’m glad you brought that up. I hear that you’re a culinary star, so I’m going to leave food up to you. My idea of bar food is pretzels, nuts, and a few bowls of chips, but I know that’s not going to cut it or meet the state regulations for serving alcohol.”

  Pretzels and nuts were fine at a sports bar, but launching a new brewery definitely called for something more refined, and Garrett was right: our liquor license required us to offer small plates. I knew that Garrett had hired me for my brewing and culinary skills, but Hans hadn’t made it clear whether Garrett wanted me to manage the kitchen or provide ideas. I decided to tread carefully for the moment. “What do you think about a menu revolving around the beer?”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m thinking simple pub fare—nothing extravagant. I sketched out a few ideas at home, but wanted to sample the product first. That way I can create recipes that complement each beer.”

  Garrett pushed his hair from his eye again. “That sounds awesome, and way better than bowls of Doritos.”

  “Oh, there will be Doritos.” I smiled and looked at the brewery. The cavernous space with its stark white walls reminded me more of a clean lab than a cheery pub. Nitro’s outdoor façade blended in with Leavenworth’s pastoral vibe. Garrett had left the chocolate brown balcony, spires, and carved lion’s head crest intact. City code demanded that every building in the town square had to adhere to German aesthetics. However, what business owners did inside was completely up to them. Garrett had obviously decided not to embrace German heritage in his redesign. I appreciated the fact that there wasn’t baroque music playing or that the walls weren’t plastered with coats of arms and nutcrackers, but the cold space was too severe.

  I chose my words carefully, not wanting to offend Garrett. “It might be nice to add some warmth in here. What if we wrap those beams with string lights? I get that you’re deviating from the German theme, and trust me, I’ve seen enough lederhosen in my years here to last a lifetime, but I think it needs a little splash of color.”

  He scratched his head. “Do you think people are going to be mad that I took down my aunt’s dusty tchotchkes? Every square inch of wall was covered with German kitsch.”

  “Welcome to Leavenworth.” I winked. “But, no, I don’t think you should worry. In fact I think it’s good to set yourself apart, especially since you’re not on Front Street. I mean there are a few crazies around who think that everyone should dress the part to please tourists, but I’m not worried about that. A few lights and prints on the walls should make it feel a tad more welcoming.”

  Garrett nodded. “Right.”

  “Did you happen to save any photographs of the inn or family pictures? I could create a display to pay homage to your aunt.”

  “Great idea.” Garrett’s eyes brightened. “I have stacks of framed photos upstairs. I’ll bring them down.” He bit his bottom lip. “Are you sure this isn’t going be too much work?”

  “No work at all. I love doing projects like this.” That was true, but I hoped that I hadn’t oversold my capabilities. I had less than twenty-four hours to create an upscale beer menu and transform Nitro for opening night.

  Time to get to work.

  Read on for an excerpt of Another One Bites the Crust

  The seventh installment in the Bakeshop Mysteries, available January 2018 from St. Martin’s Press!

  Copyright © 2018 by Kate Dyer-Seeley

  Chapter One

  They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder. After a week away from my beloved town of Ashland, Oregon, I knew this to be true. The sidewalks along the plaza seemed merrier, the budding spring trees looked cheerier, and the southern Oregon sky glowed in warm pink tones as I made my way to Torte. It was as if Ashland had rolled out the welcome mat to greet me. I smiled as I passed sleepy storefronts and drank in the cool, early morning air. Our family bakeshop sat at the corner of the Elizabethan-inspired village. Huge Shakespearean banners announcing the new season at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival danced in the slight breeze. Torte’s front windows had been decorated with matching maroon and gold banners, ribbons, and twinkle lights. Platters of cupcakes adorned with edible, hand-painted theater masks, busks, and scrolls made for a colorful and tempting display.

  “I’m home,” I said to no one as I took a deep breath and unlocked the front door. Inside, the bakeshop was blanketed in darkness. I flipped on the lights and surveyed the dining room. Torte
was divided into three unique spaces. The front served as a dining room with red and teal walls, corrugated metal siding, an assortment of small tables, and cozy booths lining the windows. An espresso bar and pastry counter divided the dining room and kitchen. A large chalkboard menu took up most of the far wall. One of Torte’s youngest customers had colored a stick-figure family with a dog, cat, and what I could only guess might be some kind of a bird in the bottom corner of the chalkboard. We keep an assortment of colorful chalk on hand to entertain youngsters while their parents nosh on pastries or linger over coffee. It’s been a tradition since my parents opened the bakeshop to reserve a special section of the chalkboard for budding masterpieces.

  The same was true for the rotating Shakespearean quote on the top of the chalkboard. My father had always been a fan of the Bard’s work and enjoyed sharing his passion for poetry with customers. When he died, Mom continued the weekly quotes as an homage to him. This week’s quote was from Antony and Cleopatra. It read: “Give me some music; music, moody food. Of us that trade in love.” Not only was it a lovely quote, but it was also a teaser for the new season at OSF, which kicked off in a week with the premier of Antony and Cleopatra. Everyone in Ashland had been buzzing with excitement. The commencement of another season meant that soon our calm streets would be packed with tourists in town to take in a show, and to shop and dine in our little hamlet. I liked Ashland’s seasonal rhythm. When the theater went dark for the winter, so did we. gone fishing signs hung from storefront windows, locals packed up and followed the sun south, and business owners spruced up their shops and planned for the coming year. Having a cold and snowy reprieve where things quieted down and assumed a more leisurely pace for a few months was always nice, but by February the entire town was ready and eager to welcome tourists from around the globe.

  I’d been away on a temporary assignment as head pastry chef for a luxury cruise ship, the Amour of the Seas, where I had spent many happy years with my now estranged husband, Carlos. Our time together had been blissful, although perhaps not grounded in reality. Traveling across oceans had allowed me to explore the world and taste exotic pastries, like Taiwanese buns with dried jujubes and traditional star plum pastries from Finland. My palate expanded with every bite at each new port of call. I credit my years on the Amour of the Seas for making me the chef I am today. Yet, when I left it behind I never looked back. From the moment my feet hit the pavement in Ashland, I knew I was home.

  That changed a few weeks ago when Carlos called out of the blue and begged me to fill in. The ship’s pastry chef had stormed off in a huff, leaving the kitchen in a lurch. At first I had resisted the idea, but the timing had been perfect. Plus, Carlos had offered an all-expenses-paid vacation for Mom and the Professor. A week at sea under the tropical sun had been just what the doctor ordered for all of us. I got some much-needed clarity on my relationship and future with Carlos, and the Professor finally popped the question, getting down on one knee under a glowing sunset to ask for Mom’s hand in marriage. Every time I replayed his romantic proposal in my head, my eyes began to mist.

  Being back on the Amour had been a reminder of the life that I’d left behind. I didn’t harbor any ill will toward my memories or my years spent sailing on calm, azure waters. Nor did I regret marrying Carlos. What I had come to understand, though, was that it was possible to love more than one person or thing. I knew that my heart belonged in Ashland, even if Carlos would always hold a piece of it. It was time to let go of the past, even if that meant saying good-bye to Carlos. The ache of leaving him this time felt different. I knew that things were shifting, and I was ready to dive headfirst into my life here.

  For starters, that meant focusing on the task at hand—preparing vats of homemade soups, breads, and sweets for the incoming crowds. I tugged off my coat, grabbed an apron from the rack next to the espresso bar, and headed for the kitchen. In addition to gearing up for the busy season, we were in the middle of a major expansion. The basement property beneath the bakeshop had recently come on the market, and Mom and I had decided there was no time like the present to take the plunge. While we were on the cruise, the first phase of construction had begun. The space had been waterproofed by adding special drainage and shoring up the foundation. With that project complete, we could now turn our attention to the fun part—designing a state-of-the-art kitchen.

  Our current plan was to roll the remodel out in stages. The next step involved gutting the current floor plan to make room for an industrial kitchen and small seating area. Once that was complete, baking operations would move downstairs. Then we would knock through the current kitchen, add stairs, and expand the coffee bar and dining room. I was most excited about the open-kitchen concept that the architect had drafted. We had discovered a massive brick oven that would serve a dual purpose—baking wood-fired pastries and pizzas and offering a cozy spot for guests to watch our team of bakers at work and to nibble on buttery croissants. For the past week, I’d woken up in the middle of the night dreaming about pulling beautiful charred crusts and bubbling ramekins of macaroni and cheese topped with Applewood bacon from the new oven.

  It all penciled out on paper, but I was nervous about how everything would come together and keeping the contractors on track. But with one glance at our current kitchen, I knew whatever stress this project brought would be worth it. We had reached maximum capacity in the current space, and if we wanted to expand our offerings, if we were going to continue taking so many special orders for weddings and catering, we had to have more square footage.

  One task as a time, Jules, I told myself as I fired up our shiny new ovens, which would eventually be repositioned downstairs, and studied my to-do list on the whiteboard. There were wholesale bread orders, four custom cakes, two corporate pastry orders, and the daily Torte menu to complete. I quickly sketched out a plan of attack. Stephanie, our pastry protégé, and Bethany, our newest recruit, could tackle the bread and corporate orders. I would work on the custom cakes. Sterling, our chef-in-training would be responsible for soup and sandwiches, and Andy would man the espresso counter. Fortunately, Mom had decided to scale back a bit to focus on wedding plans. I would miss having her steady energy around, but I honestly wasn’t sure how we could squeeze one more body into the tight space. Our expansion couldn’t happen fast enough.

  As I turned on the sink and began washing my hands, the front door jingled and Stephanie and Andy arrived together.

  “Morning, boss!” Andy grinned, with a wave.

  Stephanie made some sort of grunting sound, hung her head, and shuffled inside after him.

  “Someone needs a java, stat.” Andy mimicked Stephanie’s posture.

  She shot him a harsh look. “Do you pound espresso before you get here?”

  “Nope. But my mom always says that the early bird catches the worm.” He winked and tipped his baseball hat at her.

  Stephanie scowled. “Will you please just make me a coffee?”

  I hid a smile. I was used to their unique personalities. They were both students at Southern Oregon University, but that was where their similarities ended. Nothing ever appeared to fluster Andy. He was a perfect in his role as Torte’s lead barista, with his jovial attitude and easy ability to chat with anyone. Our customers loved him. They also loved his coffee. He had a natural talent for combining unique flavors and was a master at latte art. The things he could do with nothing more than foamed milk and a toothpick would make a professional sculptor’s head spin. From a swan floating on puffy white clouds to a pirate ship, complete with a skull and crossbones, Andy could create almost anything on the top of a cup. As of late, he had been perfecting Shakespeare’s bust and started to take requests. Watching him flourish had been one of the highlights of my career thus far.

  Stephanie might not have Andy’s laid-back attitude, but I had learned that sometimes there’s a soft and sweet center under a crunchy exterior. Her goth style, shockingly purple hair, and tendency to dress in all black paired with her sometimes-
surly smile made her appear uninterested and aloof. But nothing could be further from the truth. She was loyal, dependable, and a quick study. Mom and I had been teaching her the tricks of the pastry trade, and I was impressed by how much her skills had grown in the last few months. She often surprised me. Like the fact that she binged hours and hours of Pastry Channel baking shows for entertainment and her own education. Or that she had forged a strong bond with Bethany and seemed genuinely excited about taking on independent projects like Torte’s website and social media.

  Andy removed his baseball cap and gave Stephanie a half bow. “My pleasure. I’m here to keep you caffeinated.”

  “You better make that a double,” I hollered from the kitchen.

  Stephanie tied on an apron and joined me, while Andy began to steam milk and grind beans.

  “Late night?” I asked, handing her the wholesale order sheet.

  “Don’t even get me started. A new girl moved in next door. She’s a music major and likes to belt out show tunes all night long. All freaking night long. It’s been going on for a week, and I think I might snap.”

  I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Show tunes, really? Somehow I don’t think of your generation being big into show tunes.”

  Stephanie scowled. “We’re not.”

  Andy turned to face us. “I second that! Man, I feel for you, Steph.”

  “Thanks.” She rubbed her temples. “If hear Oklahoma one more time, I’m going to lose my mind.”

  “Only in Ashland.” I shook my head and laughed. “You know who would love this? Lance.”

  “No. Don’t give him any ideas,” Stephanie pleaded. “Gawd, can you even imagine? He’d probably want to have her come in and audition or something.”

  “Good point.” I gathered mixing bowls and nine-inch round pans. “I promise this will be a show tune–free zone today. Are you okay with working on the bread orders? Once Bethany gets in, I thought the two of you could focus on the corporate deliveries too. They want an assortment of pastries, so we can double up our daily offerings.”