“Wait, slow down.” I reached my hand across the table. “Is this the actor you were complaining about while I was on the cruise?”
“One in the same. ‘Antony.’ ” Lance shuddered as he said the name. “I gave the kid a shot. As a matter of fact, I gave him the break of a lifetime. I’ll admit that he has talent, I won’t argue with that, but the ego on this one is out of control.”
Lance and I had exchanged emails while I was away, and I remembered him mentioning an actor who was driving him crazy. At the time, I had figured it was because Lance didn’t like sharing the spotlight. Maybe there was more to it.
“What has he done?”
“The question is what hasn’t he done? He refuses to break character. He only answers to ‘Antony’—not his real name, FYI.”
“Really? He’s that method?”
Lance rolled his eyes. “I can’t even.”
“What’s his name?”
“Good God, if I told you I’d risk upsetting the little prima donna.” Lance scowled. “It gets worse. He parades around in his toga and expects everyone to jump at his every command.” Lance’s voice hit a high octave. “He’s staging a coup. He’s plotting against me. Quite ironic, if you think about it. When Shakespeare wrote Antony and Cleopatra, he was making a statement on world politics. The battle for power. East versus West. A play written four hundred years ago resonates today, doesn’t it?”
He didn’t pause long enough to let me respond. To be honest my Shakespeare knowledge was limited at best.
“They’re both superstars—Antony and Cleopatra. Ancient Rome versus ancient Egypt. That’s exactly the battle raging on my stage and in my personal life.”
“How?” I asked, waving to one of our regulars who left the bakeshop with a box of pastries for her office.
Lance looked distracted. “What?”
“Well for starters, Antony. What is he doing to plot against you, and why don’t you just fire him?”
“Please.” Lance gave me an exasperated stare. “You should see the OSF contracts. They’re ironclad. Not to mention that he has the entire company and board wrapped around his little finger. That’s why they hosted that disgusting preseason dinner at Richard Lord’s. He and Richard teamed up against me. Richard offered the board a ridiculous price break. For what? Glorified pig slop? I doubt he made a dime on the dinner. He simply wanted to able to boast that the Merry Windsor was the restaurant of choice this year—blah!” Lance stuck out his tongue. “The board has been looking to cut every penny it can from the budget. So when Antony suggested a gastronomic experience, they jumped at the chance to save a buck. Is this what theater has come to in Ashland? I swear. I think it might be time for me to start packing my bags.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do.” His eyes bulged. “Antony claimed that his previous company in Los Angeles always hosted a gastronomic dinner at the hottest eateries. What he failed to mention is that he was nothing more than an extra. He never had a lead, let alone a speaking part in L.A. I gave him his break, and this is the thanks I get.” The distain in Lance’s voice was thick.
Richard Lord owned the Merry Windsor hotel on the opposite side of the plaza from Torte. He had appointed himself Lord of Ashland and made it his business to know everyone else’s business. Richard and I hadn’t seen eye to eye since he had attempted a hostile takeover of Torte. The Merry Windsor was run-down, in need of repair, and served pre-packaged frozen and processed meals. As part of his attempt to pull customers away from Torte, Richard had added a coffee bar to the front of the hotel. His latest food escapade involved updating his menu to molecular gastronomy, a trend that first hit the food scene over a decade ago. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what his new menu might feature. Probably something like deconstructed grilled cheese. Gross.
I shifted in my seat. “What are you going to do?”
Lance clapped his hands together as a slow, evil smile spread across his face. “Ah, that’s why I need you, darling.”
“Okay.” I could hear the trepidation in my voice.
“I’m going to throw my own preseason party. It’s going to be a fully immersive experience. Set designs, costumes, and of course show-stopping food.”
“But I thought the dinner already happened.”
“We will never speak of that again. The meal was an assault to my palate and a hideous blemish on OSF’s tasteful history. I intend to put on the most luxurious fete this town has ever seen, and you, dear Juliet, are going to help me.”
“I am?”
“Indeed.” Lance leaned across the table. “Now let’s get down to details. I want an authentic Shakespearean dessert buffet. I’m talking about a cornucopia of Renaissance delights. No expense shall be spared!”
This was more like the Lance I knew and loved. “What sort of budget have they given you?”
“There’s no budget. This is on my own dime. Funded completely by yours truly. And I want this to be the party that people talk about for years to come.”
“How many people are you inviting? And when is the party?” I asked, wondering if we had the time or capacity to take on another project right now.
“Next week, the night before we raise the curtain on the new season, and everyone is invited. The entire company.”
“Lance, that isn’t a lot of time, and that’s a lot of people. I don’t know if we can do it. We have so much going on here with the expansion.”
He grabbed my hand and squeezed it tight. “Juliet, you have to.” I could see the desperation in his eyes as he continued. “This party is my chance to prove my worth and vision to the board and company. It has to be perfect. It might be my last and only opportunity to save my career. No one does dessert like you. I’ll absolutely die if you say no.”
“You won’t die, Lance.” I freed myself from his grasp.
“Please,” he begged and batted his lashes. “For your best friend?”
“I don’t know.” I hesitated.
“Look, I didn’t want it to have to come to this, but you do owe me. I saved your life, remember? If it hadn’t been for my superb acting, you might be floating at the bottom of the ocean or dead in a ditch. The least you can do to repay me is whip up a culinary masterpiece.”
“Fine.” I knew it was probably easier to just agree. Lance wasn’t used to hearing no, and this conversation could go on for hours.
“You’ll do it? Excellent.” Lance leapt to his feet. “I’ll return later with my set designer. I’ll want to coordinate the color scheme, and I have some original recipes from the 1600s that you can use.”
Before I could caution him that translating a four-hundred-year-old recipe wasn’t my expertise, he kissed both my cheeks. “Ta ta, darling. Don’t forget to cut yourself a slice of Grandma J’s pie.”
He wrapped his scarf around his neck and practically skipped to the door. Mom came in as he was leaving.
“Lance, how lovely to see you,” Mom said while he held the door open for her.
“Dearest Helen, how lovely to see you. Ashland was positively bleak without your presence.” He kissed both of her cheeks. “You are absolutely aglow with the blush of love. I’ve heard the news, and I assure you I’m at your service. Anything you need. Anything, you let me know.”
“Thanks.” Mom gave him a hug in return.
Lance clapped his hands together. “Now, let me see the ring.”
Mom raised her left hand to show Lance her antique, platinum engagement ring.
“Stunning. Not that I would expect anything less from our resident bard.” Lance kissed her hand. “I must be off. I have a party to plan. Juliet will fill you in on all the gory details. Ta ta!”
He had certainly perked up since the start of our conversation, but I was still worried about him.
“I’m trying to remember if I’ve ever seen Lance here this early,” Mom said, walking over to greet me.
I motioned for her to sit. Lance was right. There was a lightness about her that
I hadn’t seen for years. Her brown eyes were bright and filled with eagerness. When she caught my eye her expression changed.
“What’s wrong, honey?” she asked, taking off her pale green jacket and placing it on the back of the booth.
“It’s Lance. He’s acting unstable.” I filled her in on our conversation and about how I had just agreed to cater a dessert buffet for his party. “He breezed in with a pie from Medford, demanding that I taste it.” I pointed to the untouched pie box. “Then he completely shifted gears and launched into a rant about his leading man and how the board is trying to usurp his power.”
When I finished, she glanced behind to her to the plaza. Ashland was beginning to wake up. Storefront lights had been turned on, sidewalk seating and sandwich boards had been placed outside, and shop owners chatted with one another. “I’ve been wondering about this,” Mom said, returning her attention to me. “Lance has been at the helm of OSF for over a decade, and he’s taken that responsibility seriously. He lives and breathes the theater. I wonder if he needs a break? He’s good at putting on a happy face, but I suspect that the stress and pressure of managing so many personalities as well as the board, volunteers, and patrons has taken its toll. Can you imagine constantly having to be ‘on’?”
“No.” I shook my head. Mom raised a valid point. I knew that Lance loved the theater, but maybe it was too much of a good thing. I thought about how even being away from Ashland for a week had given me new insight and perspective. When Lance came back with his set design and ancient menus, I was going to suggest that he take a break. A little rest and relaxation was hopefully just the thing my friend needed.
Chapter Three
“What are you doing here, Mrs. C.?” Andy asked when Mom and I brought the pie box to the kitchen.
“Some welcome.” Mom winked at him.
Andy’s boyish cheeks flamed. “I didn’t mean it like that. I thought you were taking a break and doing wedding stuff.”
Mom’s wide smile spread to her eyes. “I am doing wedding stuff, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to be entirely rid of me. I have some time between appointments this morning and thought I would come by and get my hands sticky for a while.”
“Cool.”
“You want a slice of pie?” I asked.
Andy shifted his eyes from side to side. “Boss, come on, you had me at pie.”
“Don’t you want to know what kind it is?”
“If it’s pie, I’ll eat it.” He flexed his muscles. “Coach wants me to add some weight for next season.”
“You’re perfect, just as you are,” Mom assured Andy. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
I brought the pie box into the kitchen and grabbed plates, forks, a knife, and a server. “Anyone else want to try Lance’s pie?” I asked the team.
Sterling stopped peeling eggs for the egg salad he was making. His cobalt-blue eyes widened. “Lance bakes?”
“No.” I pointed to the logo on top of the box. “It’s from a shop in Medford.”
Bethany had arranged cupcakes, each frosted with a different color of buttercream, in the shape of a rainbow. “Is that from Grandma J’s? I love that place!” She twisted the legs of a miniature tripod that she used to take photos of her rainbow art. “My dad always gets a pie from Grandma J’s for his birthday.”
“Weird. I’ve never heard of it, and I’ve lived in Ashland nearly my whole life.” I removed the pie from the box.
“You kind of have to go looking for it,” Bethany replied. “It’s on the far end of town, on the way up to the mountains.”
Sterling held his arm next to the box. “Get a shot of this, Bethany. Hummingbirds unite.” The tattoo on his forearm mirrored the bird logo.
I sliced through the snowy mounds of whipped cream and cut into the flaky crust. The first piece slid out of the tin in one fluid motion. That was the sign of a well-crafted pie. After cutting generous helpings for my staff, I put Grandma J’s pie to the fork test. It passed with flying colors. My fork stood straight as a statue in the custard pie.
“This is amazing,” Bethany said through a mouthful. “Can I have that piece for a sec?” She framed Sterling’s tattoo, the logo, and my slice; then stepped back to assess the angle. Satisfied with her layout, she lined her phone up even with the island and knelt to take a few shots. Her ability to construct a scene in a photo impressed me.
Stephanie hung on the opposite side of the kitchen. “You want a piece?” I asked. She shook her head and returned to packaging cooled bread in paper bags.
“I doubt that Grandma J’s has any social media,” Bethany said, handing me back my slice of pie. “If you’re cool with it, I’ll do a post about them. Maybe something funny like: the team at Torte dies for pie!”
Mom chuckled. “You guys are so clever.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. C.,” Andy called from the bar. “If you ask, I’m sure Bethany will hook you up with wedding hashtags.”
Bethany’s head bobbed in agreement.
“Maybe,” Mom said with a subtle wink to me.
I tasted the coconut cream pie. Each layer offered a different texture. The light-as-air whipped cream blended with the crunchy coconut, and the smooth custard with hints of vanilla bean mingled with the buttery, flaky crust. “This is divine.”
“It’s really good,” Sterling agreed. He finished his piece and returned to his egg salad station.
Grandma J’s pie inspired me. When I had a free moment, I wanted to tweak her coconut concoction slightly by adding a layer of strawberry puree and fresh strawberries marinated in a simple syrup. In the meantime, I checked on the dining room and helped prep for the lunch rush. The morning flew by as Andy cranked out aromatic coffees and we churned out cakes and giant cookies.
As promised, Lance returned after lunch with an entourage. He hollered at me from the other side of the pastry case. “Oh, Juliet!” Lance snapped his fingers together and shifted the attaché case under his arm. “We need you.” A trim balding man in his early forties and a woman with short red hair and huge orange glasses stood next to him.
Sterling snickered. “They need you, Jules.”
“Great.” I untied my apron and reached for a stack of cooling cowboy cookies with huge chunks of milk and dark chocolate, pecans, and coconut. “Wish me luck.”
“You need it,” Stephanie said, not bothering to look up from the meringue she was whipping.
I scooted through the busy dining room and joined Lance and his friends at the only open window booth. He had opened the leather case and was arranging elaborate sketches and recipes written in old scroll on the table.
“Sit, sit,” he commanded.
I slid in next to the balding man, who wore thick jeans with a tool belt that stretched over both shoulders and around his waist like a suspension harness. Screwdrivers, hammers, carpenters’ pencils, chisels, and a tape measure hung from two reinforced leather pouches. “Thad, set designer.” He extended his hand.
“Nice to meet you.” I returned his handshake and recoiled slightly at the smell of his garlicy breath.
“Right, right. Jules, Thad. Thad, Jules,” Lance said, brushing his hand over the sketches. “These are Thad’s designs. He’s simply the best.”
Thad cleared his throat. “And I’ve told you that the best is going to cost you, Lance. A week is an impossible deadline. My crew is focused on last-minute set tweaks for the season. The board is not going to like it if I have to pull them off to work on this. It can’t be done. There’s not enough time.”
Lance slammed his hand on the table. “It has to be done. I don’t care what it costs, just do it.” Like earlier, he seemed to realize that his outburst was unwelcome. He smoothed one of the recipes and plastered on a serene smile. “What I mean is that, as the personal benefactor of this event, I assure you every expense you incur will be generously compensated. If you have to pay your teams double or triple to get the job done, so be it.”
Thad shook his head and looked to t
he woman sitting across from me for support. I’d seen her before, but didn’t know her name.
“Boys, let’s all calm down.” She smiled at me. “I’m Vera MacBohn, by the way.”
“You look familiar to me,” I replied.
“I’ve been with OSF forever. You’ve probably seen me around.”
“Enough,” Lance interrupted. “We’re not here to chitchat. We are here to plan the most jaw-dropping soirée that Ashland has ever seen.”
Thad let out an audible sigh. “Lance, this is ridiculous.” He adjusted one of the screwdrivers in his tool belt.
From across the table, Vera gave him a look to tell him to stop.
In an attempt to break the tension, I offered everyone a cowboy cookie. “Cookie?”
Lance scoffed. “Jules, this is no time for cookies.”
Thad snatched three from the plate. “I disagree.”
Vera smiled but declined with a curt shake of her head. “If you can believe it, I don’t enjoy sweets.”
“Really?”
“It’s true. With one exception. Carrot cake. I have been known to devour an entire cake, especially Torte’s carrot cake. You make the most exceptional cream cheese frosting with fresh candied ginger. I love it because it isn’t overly sweet.” Her eyes drifted off. “My husband thinks that the reason I like carrot cake is because I’m ginger.” She ran her fingers through her short tangerine hair.
Lance threw his hands up in disgust. “Enough. Focus, people. Focus.” He picked up photocopied recipes and forced them at me. “Study these. I want everything for the party to be completely authentic. Clotted cream, trifle, pudding, tarts, and royal marchpanes. Understood?”
I started to reply, but he didn’t let me finish. “You must coordinate the dessert color scheme with Vera’s costumes and the sets.” He turned his attention to Vera. “Did you bring the swatches?”
She gave me an apologetic look and then reached into a leopard-print bag. “I did.” She placed gorgeous swatches of silk, organza, and taffeta in eggplant, navy, gold, silver, and cream next to Thad’s sketches.
“You want us to match the desserts to these?” I asked Lance. I had to agree with Thad—Lance’s request was over-the-top.
Trouble Is Brewing--A Bakeshop Mini-Mystery Page 9
