Trouble Is Brewing--A Bakeshop Mini-Mystery

by Ellie Alexander

  “Sure.” Stephanie’s eyelids, which were coated in purple shadow, drooped as she read through the bread orders. Upon closer inspection, her deep-set eyes were puffy with heavy bags beneath them. Her skin looked pale, but not from makeup. She absently twisted off the lid to a flour canister and nearly dropped it on the floor.

  I felt sorry for her. Having a noisy neighbor was the worst. I was fortunate to have complete privacy in my apartment in Ashland. It was located above Elevation, an outdoor store that closed at seven every evening. However, I remembered my early days working for the cruise line when I had to bunk with three other women. The crew quarters were often an all-night party, which did not lend itself to bakers’ hours. I had invested in an expensive pair of earplugs to get to sleep. I wondered if I still had them. I would have to check later and bring them in for Stephanie.

  We worked in silence for the first thirty minutes of the morning. I creamed butter, sugar, eggs, and vanilla in the mixer and then sifted in dry ingredients for the first cake. The order was for a vanilla sponge with vanilla buttercream. A simple but classic request. The customer hadn’t specified any design preferences, so I planned to use an old method called spooning. After frosting the layered cake with generous amounts of buttercream, I would pipe vertical dots all over the cake. Once the cake was covered with dots of buttercream, I would use the back of a spoon and start at the base, making small swirls up to the top edge. Then I would repeat the process around the entire cake. The final product would look like fluffy clouds or flower petals. It’s a gorgeous vintage look that never went out of style.

  Andy cut the silence by bringing us two brimming mugs of black coffee. “Coffee, anyone?”

  I poured the creamy vanilla batter into the cake pans, slid them into the oven, and turned toward Andy.

  He handed a ceramic mug to me. “I went with a straight-up light roast. It’s delicate and floral, and I think it’s best without any cream or sugar.”

  Stephanie, who was up to her elbows in bread dough, frowned and stared at Andy’s offering. “Light roast. I need caffeine—like an IV of caffeine. I can’t stop hearing Oklahoma in my head.”

  Andy bit his lip to keep from laughing and rested the cup next to the mound of springy bread dough Stephanie was kneading. “Trust me. This will do the trick. There’s no difference in caffeine when it comes to roasts. People assume that dark roasts have more caffeine because it’s a bolder coffee.” He paused and shook his head. “Nah, total myth. Roast has nothing to do with caffeine. Nothing. It’s kind of a big controversy in the coffee world, though. There’s a whole camp of people who think that light roasts actually have more caffeine. You know, because roasting the beans for longer brings out oils, so I guess you could say that more caffeine burns off in the process.”

  Stephanie stared at him as if he was speaking a foreign language.

  Andy looked to me for confirmation. “Right, boss?”

  I shrugged. “Don’t look at me. To be honest, I’ve never considered the caffeine content of a roast.” I wrinkled my nose. “How do you know all of this?”

  “YouTube.” Andy’s wide smile made his face look even more boyish.

  “Really?” I cradled the coffee mug. The scent of floral notes hit my nose.

  “Sure. I have to know what I’m talking about. When it comes to caffeine, people get kind of crazy.”

  “Light roast, dark roast, I’ll drink whatever you brew.” I held up the mug in a toast and took a sip. As promised the coffee was smooth with a sweet complexity and a fruity tanginess. I inhaled its fragrant, almost floral scent and took another sip. “This is fantastic.”

  “Glad you like it. I’m going to experiment with this blend today. It should be a nice spring drink. I’m thinking of trying to pair it with some infused rose water or maybe orange blossoms. I’ll bring some stuff for you guys to try in a while.” With that he returned to the espresso bar.

  Stephanie took a long drink of her coffee and then punched a mound of bread dough on the island. “Oh my Gawd, I’m such a tool.”

  “What?” I looked up from the next order sheet.

  She dug her black nails into the pillowy dough. “I accidentally put sugar in this instead of salt.” Then she pointed to a row of canisters next to her flour-coated workspace. Sure enough the sugar lid was off and had measuring spoons resting inside it.

  “It’s okay.” I set the order sheet near my coffee and walked to the other side of the island. “We can salvage this, no problem.”

  Stephanie brushed flour from her hands with such force that I thought she might injure herself. “This is supposed to be French bread.”

  I ripped off two tiny pieces of the dough, popped one in my mouth, and handed the other to Stephanie. “Taste it.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yeah?”

  “Improvise,” I said, swallowing the sweet, stretchy dough. “Any good chef will tell you that some of their most revered dishes were nothing more than happy accidents.”

  “Right.”

  “It’s true.” I cut off a hunk of the dough and formed it into a round ball. “Here’s what we’ll do. Why don’t you coat the loaf pans with olive oil? Then we’ll drizzle each loaf with honey and a dusting of sea salt. Suddenly, you’ll have a crisp crunch, a light sweetness, and a touch of salt. Ta da! Honey French Bread.”

  “But that isn’t on the order list.”

  “No problem. We’ll make another batch of standard French, but I guarantee you this is going to be a hit.”

  Stephanie shrugged. “If you think so.”

  “I know so.” I thought about patting her on the shoulder or giving her a quick hug to reassure her, but decided against it. Even in the best of circumstances, Stephanie wasn’t effusive. I didn’t want to make it worse for her.

  Sleep deprivation had rattled my young apprentice. I was going to have to keep an eye on her. I returned to the other side of the workstation and sipped my coffee. I studied the next order. It was for a two-layer chocolate marble sheet for a fourth birthday party. The customer had requested a unicorn-and-rainbow theme. That should be fun, I thought as the door jingled again and Sterling and Bethany arrived.

  “Everyone’s coming in pairs this morning,” I said to Stephanie and waved hello to Sterling and Bethany.

  Andy offered them a cup of his spring blend on their way back to the kitchen. They both gladly accepted the drinks and joined the activity.

  “Morning,” Sterling said to both of us, but I noticed his gaze linger on Stephanie for a moment. His eyes shifted ever so slightly. Was he worried about her too?

  Sterling had become like a brother to me. We shared a common love for food, and we had both experienced losses and had tender, romantic souls. He had been holding a torch for Stephanie for a while now, and I just hoped that she wouldn’t break his heart. Not that he would have any difficulty finding someone new. Ever since we’d hired Sterling, a rotation of young girls came into the bakeshop every day to catch a glimpse of the handsome, dark-haired chef. His brilliant blue eyes and poetic nature often sent groups of teenage girls into giggling fits in the dining room. Sterling was oblivious to the attention. He only had eyes for Stephanie.

  “Are you up for a busy morning?” I asked Sterling and Bethany.

  “At your service, Jules,” Sterling said, heading straight for the sink. “Put me to work.”

  “Same here,” Bethany echoed. She savored her coffee. “Have you seen our social media accounts lately?” She wore her curly brown hair in two braids and a pale pink T-shirt with a silhouette of a cupcake and the words bake the world a better place.

  “No.” I shook my head. “Love your shirt, though.”

  She grinned and gave me a thumbs-up. Bethany had come on board initially to cover while Mom and I were on the cruise, but she’d been so helpful and blended in with our staff so well that we asked her to stay permanently. She had started a brownie delivery service, The Unbeatable Brownie, so part of our contract had been a partnership where she retained a
portion of the profits from those sales. She had also agreed to work with Stephanie to bring us into the twenty-first century and create a stronger online social media presence. They had been snapping pictures of cakes, pastries, customers, and life in the kitchen and posting them online. So far the response had been great. It was fun to have fresh ideas and energy in the kitchen.

  Bethany tied on an apron, hiding the sweet saying that could be Torte’s new mantra. “Well, Stephanie and I came up with this idea while you were gone, and it’s been working really well. We’ve been posting a secret brownie flavor of the day. Anyone who comes in and mentions the flavor gets a free one. They have to take a picture and use the hashtag #SecretSweets. We’ve doubled our followers in less than a week.”

  “That’s amazing. I love the idea. A little touch of mystery in the bakeshop never hurts. How have you been deciding on flavors?”

  Stephanie patted the last round ball of bread dough into a bread pan and brushed flour from her hands. “We started with a crazy flavor just to see if anyone would bite.” She placed our experimental French bread in the oven and unleashed the heavenly scent of my vanilla sponge cakes.

  “Ha, bite!” Andy clapped from the espresso bar. “Well played.”

  “Anyway,” Stephanie continued with an eye roll at Andy. “Bethany thought of adding Sriracha to the brownie batter, and we sold out in like an hour.”

  “Sriracha brownies? Wow. I’m impressed, you two.”

  “Thanks.” Bethany gave me a sheepish grin. “It sounded weird at first, but they were good. We went easy on the Sriracha. And don’t they say that chocolate and spice go well together?”

  “Absolutely,” I replied over the humming sound of the espresso machine.

  “Well,” Bethany hesitated for a moment and fiddled with her hands. “You know my friend, Carter? He’s working in Portland now, and they are doing all kinds of unique things with macarons. Like Doritos and Fruity Pebbles. I’ve been wanting to learn how to make them, so I thought if you were up for it you could teach me and Steph, then we could mix it up and do macarons and brownies. I mean, only if you think it’s cool. No pressure or anything.”

  “I think it’s a great idea. Let’s do it. Macarons are one of my all-time favorite desserts. We should definitely be offering them here.”

  “Awesome.” Bethany reached over to Stephanie and gave her a fist bump.

  We reviewed the task list and everyone started on their individual projects. I couldn’t keep the smile from my face. Our team at Torte was more than I could hope for. They were hard workers, self-starters, and innovators. How had I been so lucky? The morning was confirmation of my decision. Ashland and Torte were home, and nothing—not even the stress of a major renovation—could get me down.

  That was until we opened for business an hour later and Lance, my friend and the artistic director at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival, pushed his way past the small line queuing at the coffee counter. He balanced a pie box with one hand and used the other to snap at me. “Juliet, I need you!” Pausing for dramatic effect, he glanced around the dining room to make sure that he had everyone’s attention. “Darling, it’s an emergency. If I don’t talk to you—now—I simply might, die.” He stopped, gave a half bow to his audience, and raised the pie box. “Or rather, I might pie!”

  Chapter Two

  “It looks like Lance is already on the warpath,” I mumbled under my breath to Sterling.

  “Ha!” Sterling didn’t bother to try to hide his amusement. He rolled up the sleeves of his hoodie, revealing a hummingbird tattoo on his forearm, and rubbed his hands together. “Jules, this is all you. We endured a week of Lance while you were away. It’s your turn.”

  Stephanie held up a rolling pin. “Yeah. Don’t let him back here. I’m in a show tune nightmare and can’t be trusted. I might go postal if Lance says . . . anything.”

  I threw my hands up. “All right. All right. Don’t panic. I’ll handle Lance.”

  The team breathed a collective sigh of relief as I reached for a lemon-raspberry tart and popped it on a plate. The only way to deal with Lance this early was with pastry. On my way to the dining room, I stopped and poured a cup of Andy’s spring blend.

  “Darling, you look positively refreshed.” Lance greeted me with a kiss on both cheeks. He tossed his cashmere scarf on the back of the booth and motioned for me to join him.

  “Thanks.” I set the tart and coffee in front of him and took a seat.

  “The tropics were good to you.” He narrowed his eyes behind his thick-framed black glasses and stared at me. “That porcelain skin of yours has a slight touch of sun. It works, darling. It really does. But honestly, how many times do I have to tell you to do something more than a boring ponytail with your hair?”

  My hand betrayed me as I instinctively touched the back of my head. Lance had been begging me since we first met to let his makeup artist and hair stylist “work their magic” on me. I’m not much of a makeup girl, mainly because it isn’t practical. The steam and heat of a commercial kitchen tend to make mascara run. The same was true for my hair. Wearing it up in a ponytail was quick and easy since I was usually awake long before the sun, and it allowed me to concentrate on piping designs and stencil work without getting hair in my eyes. Not to mention that it’s also the rule of the state health authority.

  “Well don’t sit there staring. Don’t you want to see what I’ve brought for you?” He pushed forward a white pie box stamped with a simple black silhouette of a hummingbird and the words grandma j’s hummingbird café. Then he loosened his gold and eggplant–striped tie and opened the box to reveal a gorgeous toasted coconut cream pie. “Darling, wait to be amazed. I’ve brought you a little slice of heaven.”

  “Grandma J’s Hummingbird Café. I never heard of it.” I ignored his commentary on my appearance and studied the beautiful pie that had been finished with mounds of whipping cream and golden brown toasted coconut.

  “Of course you haven’t. It’s off the beaten path. Way off the beaten path.” He glanced around the bakeshop to see if anyone was listening and then whispered, “As in Medford—next to a truck stop of all places.”

  I couldn’t picture Lance trekking to a truck stop in Medford for pie, or anything for that matter. As if reading my mind, he swept his hand across the top of the box. “Don’t believe me? Take a bite. I’ll have you know that Grandma J and her pie-baking daughter, Donna Marie, make the lightest, fluffiest crusts you’ve ever tasted, filled with the most decadent custards and freshest of fruits. One bite and you’ll be swooning.”

  “Truck stop pie. You never cease to amaze me, Lance.”

  “Not truck stop pie. Don’t make it sound so uncivilized. Next to a truck stop. And, really Juliet, you of all people should know that the best things come in the most unexpected places.” He pointed to the pie. “Now, shall you do the honors, or shall I?”

  Lance strummed his long fingers on the table. Had he been chewing his fingernails? Lance had impeccable style. He tended to wear expensive three-piece suits and ascots. No one else in Ashland could get away with his regal look, but it worked on him. As the artistic director of OSF, he saw it as his personal duty and responsibility to give the people what they wanted. According to him, they wanted a leader who embodied the theater vibe and who could connect with the upper crust. Typically, every inch of Lance’s outfit was put together with thought and care. But today something was off. His nails had been gnawed and his silk tie was slightly askew.

  “Should I get some plates?” I asked. “And what were you doing in Medford?”

  “Nothing,” Lance snapped. A woman waiting for her latte turned her head in our direction. Lance recovered and offered her a noble wave. “It’s nothing. You might call it an exploratory trip.”

  Atartn exploratory trip to Medford? I was about to ask for clarification when Lance thrust the lid on the pie box down and pushed it to the edge of the table. “Never mind about the pie,” he said. “We have bigger things to discuss.�
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  “We do?”

  Giving me an exasperated sigh, he reached for his fork. “I feel like you’ve been gone for ages. Where to start?”

  “Lance, I was only gone for a week,” I said, trying to get a grasp on his erratic behavior. “How is everything coming along for the new season?”

  He stabbed the lemon-raspberry tart with his fork. “Don’t get me started. It’s a disaster. An absolute disaster. One might even say we’re setting ourselves up for a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions. There’s more drama in our tiny hamlet than can fit on any OSF stage.”

  “Why?” I wrinkled my brow. Lance was known to exaggerate and embellish as much as he was known for his tailored style and his award-winning productions. There was something unsettling about the way his hand shook slightly as he put a bite of tart to his lips. When Lance fell into character, his mood was usually light and playful.

  “This is delicious,” he said after swallowing the bite and dabbing a bead of sweat on his forehead with a napkin.

  I leaned across the table and lowered my voice. “Lance, is everything okay? You don’t seem like yourself.”

  His cheeks sunk in as he wiped even more sweat from his brow. “Juliet, you know I tease, but what would I do without you?”

  For a minute, I thought he was going to say more, but instead he placed the napkin over his uneaten tart, rested his elbows on the table, and massaged his temples.

  “Lance, what is it?” I repeated.

  He pursed his lips and shook his head. “They’re conspiring against me. They want me out, Juliet.”

  “Who?’

  “The board,” he whispered. Then he sat up and glanced around the dining room. A handful of early risers waiting in line for coffee and breakfast to go, but otherwise things were relatively quiet. An hour from now, once most of Ashland was up and moving, the place would be packed. “It started with that young diva I hired. He’s out to get me. I know it.”