Trouble Is Brewing--A Bakeshop Mini-Mystery

by Ellie Alexander

  “Next, go ahead and pick one of the purees, to add some color and flavor to your batter.” I lined baking sheets with parchment paper. Soon they each had luscious, pastel batter.

  “What do you think you should do now?” I asked.

  “Pipe the batter?” Bethany sounded unsure in her reply.

  “Close.” I held up my pinky. “Taste.”

  “Right.” Bethany chuckled. Steph didn’t respond, but she did stick a finger into her batter and look pleased with the final result. I tasted each mixture. No wonder Stephanie had almost cracked a smile. The batter was infused with berry flavor with a hint of almond and scant sweetness.

  “Perfection.” I gave them my seal of approval and demonstrated how to pipe one - and - a - half - inch round circles onto the tray. “You should get approximately twenty-four cookies per tray. But once you finish pipping, you’re not quite done yet.”

  “Why?” Stephanie asked, filling her bag with the delicate mixture.

  “These beauties are very particular. It’s one of the reasons that most home bakers seldom try to make them. You have to let the rounds age. It’s crucial. Otherwise you’ll end up with a wet and sticky cookie.”

  “Gross.” Bethany stuck out her tongue.

  “Exactly. Time is your friend. Let them sit and form a nice hard shell, and then you’re almost ready to slide them into the oven.” French macarons had an exquisite texture with a crunchy exterior and soft, chewy finish. Rushing any of the steps would result in a flat, lifeless cookie.

  “Almost?” Stephanie glanced at the clock. “Are we going to be here all night?”

  “No. The final step is to gently tap the tray on the counter a couple of times to release any air bubbles, and then they’re good to go.”

  “Finally,” Bethany scoffed.

  “Yes, but they’ll be worth the effort.” I stood back and let them finish the process.

  Within the hour, we had cheerful stacks of macarons lining the island—minty green cookies filled with white chocolate and a touch of mint, peach-colored cookies filled with a thin layer of buttercream and peach preserves, blueberry cookies filled with lemon curd, and pale pink cookies filled with seedless raspberry jam.

  “Nice work,” I said, appraising the collection of sandwich cookies.

  “Thanks for the tips, Jules.” Bethany broke one of the blueberry macarons in half. “I can’t wait to get some shots of these.

  I glanced at Stephanie, who was leaning against the counter as if it was the only thing holding her up. “Let’s call it a night. We’ve made great progress. I’ll store these in air-tight containers and you two can head out.”

  Stephanie grunted something indistinguishable and trudged to the front door. Bethany followed after her. It didn’t take long to arrange the macarons in large plastic Tupperware. Refrigerating them overnight would allow the cookies to absorb the filling and make them even softer. They would last for three to four days before becoming crumbly. Although I had a feeling they wouldn’t last that long. My best guess was that we’d be sold out by lunch tomorrow.

  I left Torte feeling content that we would be able to manage Lance’s party and that the top shelf of the pastry case would be filled with exquisite spring macarons. That feeling stayed with me until I returned to the bakeshop the next morning.

  It started as a typical day with the scent of rising yeast bread and butter croissants baking in the ovens. Bethany set up a photo shoot of our French macarons. Andy kept pace at the espresso bar and continued to perfect his Shakespearean latte bust. Sterling watched over a pot of bubbling French onion soup, and Stephanie shuffled around like a zombie.

  Aside from my concern about Stephanie’s ability to function on no sleep, the morning passed with relative calm. That changed when I checked my email. A message from Lance waited in my inbox, spelling out his instructions which included the fact that every attendee and vendor would be required to dress in period costumes. Great.

  I printed out his detailed spreadsheet and called everyone around the island.

  “What’s the deal, Jules?” Sterling turned his attention away from the onions he was caramelizing on the stove.

  “I have an, er, update from Lance,” I said.

  “Oh no.” Stephanie let out a groan. “I don’t like the sound of this.”

  “What’s the bad news, boss?” Andy asked, chomping on the day’s special—a roast beef and cheddar cheese sandwich with a thin layer of homemade horseradish sauce and served on a hearty baguette. Mom has always believed that a fed staff is a happy staff. Our team never went hungry. They were the first to sample new recipes and taste whatever was hot out of the oven. We had an open-kitchen policy where they were welcome to help themselves to anything from the pastry case or on the lunch menu. No one had ever abused the privilege. If anything, it boosted sales. We often sold out of daily specials because Sterling and Andy would rave to customers about how the daily soup was the best thing that they’d ever tasted.

  “It’s not exactly bad news.” I tried to choose my words carefully.

  “But it’s not good news,” Sterling interjected. He folded his arms across his chest.

  “That depends on your perspective.”

  “Out with it.” Andy waved his baguette at me.

  “Lance is requesting that we dress up for the party.”

  Sterling raised one brow. “Dress up how? Like a suit?”

  “Not exactly. He wants all of the service staff in full costume.”

  “No way. I’m out. You are not going to get me in a costume,” Stephanie said from the opposite side of the island. Her dark, steely glare made it clear that she was serious. I had no intention of forcing any of my staff to do something they didn’t want to, but the look of panic and dread on Stephanie’s face made me worried she was going to quit on the spot.

  Before I could reassure her, Bethany spoke up. “Actually, I think that sounds kind of fun. I’ve always wanted to see the inner workings of the costume department, and just imagine the photos we can get for social media. They could go viral.”

  “See,” I said to Stephanie. “There you go, no need to worry.” I smiled at Bethany. “Thanks for volunteering.”

  Andy pointed at Sterling. “Does that mean we don’t have to wear tights?”

  Sterling crossed fingers on both of his hands. “Please, Jules.”

  I laughed. “You are all off the hook. Bethany and I will take one for the team.”

  “I owe you,” Stephanie said to Bethany.

  Bethany shook her head. “No, I’m excited. I think it will be fun.”

  The smell of simmering onions, sherry, and thyme made my stomach rumble. “Great.” I handed her the printout. “On that note, Lance wants you to go get a fitting at the costume department.”

  “Really?” Bethany beamed. “This is going to be like being in a show. I can’t believe it.” She untied her apron. “Do you think I can bring my phone? Or are photos prohibited?”

  “I’m sure that Lance would love for you to create a custom hashtag for the event,” I said with a chuckle. “You can ask at the costume department, though. They’ll tell you if there’s any kind of an issue.”

  Bethany skipped to the door while Stephanie exhaled. “That girl is crazy.”

  “She seems genuinely excited,” I noted. “That’s why we’re a team. Everyone brings something different and unique.”

  Stephanie tucked her violet hair behind her ears. “Jules, you don’t even like dressing up.”

  She had a point. “True. Serving in an Elizabethan costume wouldn’t be my preference, but I’m doing it as a favor for Lance, and hopefully some of Bethany’s enthusiasm will rub off on me.”

  “You’re a good friend,” Sterling commented, returning to the stove to stir the heady onion soup.

  Andy shoved the last piece of his sandwich into his mouth. “Truth.” He gave me a salute. “Thanks for not making us wear tights. I’d never live that down with the guys on my football team.”

>   “Or the ladies,” Sterling interjected.

  “Right.”

  I made a few quick notes about some minor changes for the party. Last night I had served the fruit and custard trifle in a clear glass bowl, but for the party I wanted to find a tall vase or maybe a crystal serving dish to display the layered dessert. I also wanted to embellish the apple tarts with a Shakespearean scroll made of shortbread, frosted with royal icing, and dusted with edible gold powder. Once I finished my notes, I set to work estimating proportions and ordering product. We could work on the marchpanes first as they would keep for a few days. I sketched out a production plan and assigned roles to each team member. It was an ambitious project, but we’d successfully accomplished bigger tasks in the past.

  Once I finished our plan of attack for Lance’s party, I tucked my notes in the office and headed for the basement. Mom and I had an appointment with the architect to discuss which walls were staying and which were going and to talk about flooring. Our small office had been taken over with samples for paint, flooring, countertops, and more. I hadn’t anticipated how many decisions were involved with a major renovation.

  When I stepped outside onto the plaza the signs of spring were everywhere, from the scent of fresh cut grass to the tulips blooming in the window boxes. Galvanized tins flanked each side of the bakeshop with cascading greenery. Bistro tables with canvas umbrellas sat on the sidewalk. Bright teal-colored Ashland visitor maps had been placed on every windowsill along the plaza, a sure sign that the tourist season was upon us. The free maps showcased Ashland’s shopping district, hotels and B & B’s, and a plethora of outdoor activities nearby, like river and lake kayaking and trail running. Spring fever had hit me. I couldn’t wait for alfresco dining under the stars and afternoon picnics in Lithia Park.

  The sidewalk changed to brick as I rounded the corner to the basement. Moss coated the pathway and stairs. I held on to the iron handrail as I made my way down the aging brick steps. We had yet to decide what to do with the exterior of the building. Mom and the architect were already waiting for me when I made it to the landing and peered through what used to be a solid metal door.

  “Hey,” I called, stepping through the opening.

  Mom was standing in front of a wall that currently divided the space horizontally. “Juliet, good, I’m glad you’re here. We were just discussing whether we should completely remove this wall or leave one section at the end with a pass-through.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.” I said, waving to Robert, the architect.

  He greeted me with a firm handshake. “Follow me.” We walked to the far end of the basement. Robert pointed to the vintage brick oven. “One idea is that instead of tearing out the entire wall here, we can leave a section to provide you with some privacy in the kitchen. I would have my subcontractors cut out a six-by-four window if you will. That way you can have the seating area out here and your customers can get a glimpse of what you’re working on, but you’ll still maintain some privacy.”

  “That could be good.” I looked to Mom. “What do you think?”

  “I’m not sure. You said that this wall isn’t load-bearing, correct?” she asked Robert.

  Robert knocked on the rotting drywall. “Correct. You’d be in a bad way if it was. I could punch through this with my pinkie. If you want to do the pass-through, we’ll rebuild this section, but either way this entire wall will come down.”

  It was hard to visualize what the space could become. I turned back to face the direction we had come from. That’s where the new stairs connecting the basement would be located. Everything to my left would be the kitchen and the space to my right would be additional seating. Portable shop lights cast a shadow on the floor. Gone was the smell of mildew. An earthy scent remained, but I figured that would dissipate once new drywall went up and flooring was installed.

  “When do we have to decide?” Mom asked. I appreciated her practicality and keeping us on task.

  “You’ve got some time. The next round of subcontractors arrives tomorrow. They’ll tear everything down to the studs, and then we’ll start framing everything in.”

  “Can we take a day or two to think about it?” Mom asked.

  “Of course.” Robert pointed to the concrete floor which was brand new and dry as stale bread. “What do you think of the subfloor? Nice to see it without water, huh?”

  Mom and I both laughed in unison. “More like a relief,” I said.

  “Any decisions on flooring yet?” Robert asked.

  “I think we’re leaning toward the Pergo that looks like distressed barnwood, right Mom?”

  Mom nodded. “I know you and your team keep reminding us that our water issues are behind us, but I think we both feel safer going with a waterproof floor.”

  The flooring option that Mom was referring to was a modern laminate. It was completely waterproof, but made to look like rustic barnwood. Not only would it provide another water barrier, but the design should go well with the classic brick fireplace that would become the centerpiece for the basement kitchen.

  “Good choice,” Robert said with a nod of approval. “Should I go ahead and order it then?”

  Mom frowned. “What do you think, Juliet? How many hours have we been starting at floor samples?”

  I bit my bottom lip. “Too many.”

  Robert smiled. “I assure you, it’s normal.”

  “Let’s do it,” I said to Mom. “If I don’t say yes now, I’m going to run upstairs and spend the rest of the afternoon second-guessing myself.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” Mom squeezed my hand. “One decision down. Two hundred to go.”

  “I think you’ll be pleased with the performance and aesthetic of the Pergo. It’s a great choice,” Robert assured us. “Now on to the fireplace.” He proceeded to explain a variety of techniques he could use to sandblast and seal the bricks as they were now, as well as options to resurface them with everything from salvaged bricks to a tile façade.

  “This one is easy,” Mom said when he finished. “We want to keep the bricks as they are. We love the rustic look.”

  “Sandblasting it is.” Robert made a note.

  By the time we were done with the walk-through my mind was spinning with decisions—the pass-through, lighting, paint colors, and much more. Mom and I decided to take a short stroll along the Calle Guanajuato. The rushing sound of the creek, swollen from mountain snowmelt, murmured to our right. Antique streetlamps lined the walk. Local artists had been commissioned to create custom pieces for the pedestrian pathway. During the offseason, a European-style outdoor market, the Lithia Artists Market, pops up next to the creek, drawing craftspeople selling everything from ceramic pottery to leather shoes, along with live poetry readings and music.

  “How are you feeling about all of this, honey?” Mom looped her arm through mine. “Your eyes look a bit glazed.”

  “It’s just so many decisions, you know?”

  “I know.” She squeezed my arm. We walked in silence, drinking in the sound of birds flitting between trees and the succulent scent of blushing pink hollyhock. The pathway ended adjacent to Lithia Park. We turned the corner to return to the plaza where a group of Southern Oregon students had staged an impromptu protest. They were dressed in toxic sludge costumes and waved signs reading no oil. keep ashland green. Ashland was no stranger to rallies. As an artistic college town, it attracted a population that embraced civic engagement. One of the things that made Ashland unique was its openness. Every year, any group was invited to march in the annual Fourth of July parade, from churches to proponents of legalized marijuana. I loved watching our eclectic community find commonalities while waving American flags and dancing down the street.

  We passed Puck’s Pub and then A Rose by Any Other Name, the flower shop where bundles of fragrant roses and lilies sat in buckets.

  Mom paused in front of the flower shop. “I’m having the same momentary panic about the wedding.” She stared at the flowers for a moment. “I keep
telling myself to make one decision at a time and stick with it. Maybe years or even months from now I’ll be drawn to peonies, but if my heart wants roses today I should go with roses.”

  Her words were true of so much more than flowers or flooring. They were a mantra for living. Make a decision today and stick with it. I could do that. I had done that. After going back and forth about my future and what I wanted from Carlos, I had finally decided in the moment what I wanted, and I was getting it—the bakeshop, a new expansion, and a joy-filled occasion for celebration, Mom’s wedding. I resolved right then and there to stop worrying about making the wrong decision about the basement. There were too many wonderful things to look forward to. I wasn’t going to let worry get in the way.

  About the Author

  Author photo by Mandy Rager

  ELLIE ALEXANDER is a Pacific Northwest native who spends ample time testing pastry recipes in her home kitchen or at one of the many famed coffeehouses nearby. When she’s not coated in flour, you’ll find her outside exploring hiking trails and trying to burn off calories consumed in the name of “research.” She is the author of the Bakeshop Mysteries, which started with Meet Your Baker, as well as Death on Tap, the first in the Sloan Krause Mysteries. Find her on Facebook to learn more!

  You can sign up for email updates here.

  Also by Ellie Alexander

  The Sloan Krause Mysteries

  Death on Tap

  The Bakeshop Mysteries

  Meet Your Baker

  A Batter of Life and Death

  On Thin Icing

  Caught Bread Handed

  Fudge and Jury

  A Crime of Passion Fruit

  Another One Bites the Crust

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