Before they could start to show us their ideas, a commotion broke out across the street.
“Hey! Get outta here!” a man’s voice thundered.
We turned our attention to the corner to see the Wizard spinning in wild circles in front of Cyclepath, the bike shop catty-corner from us.
“I told you to take your crazy somewhere else, old man!” Hunter, the owner of the bike shop, stood on his stoop. “I know you’ve been vandalizing and stealing my bikes.” He held a bike wrench in one hand and yielded it like a weapon. “I’m calling the police again and if they refuse to arrest you, I would steer clear of here because I’m ready to take matters into my own hands.”
Hunter was an intimidating guy without the wrench. He was well over six feet tall with a muscular build and shoulder-length black hair. Cyclepath dealt in high-end bikes. A collection of road bikes, commuters, and expensive electric bikes were loosely chained together outside the shop. The shop itself was painted a pale shade of yellow. Two bay windows flanked each corner. Both had showpiece bikes on display.
The Wizard continued to spin in circles, the streamers flapping from the rear of his banana seat like kite tails catching the wind. He shouted back at Hunter, but in gibberish I couldn’t understand.
Three teenagers raced out of the bike shop. Each had a longboard tucked under his arm, and they were dressed in matching rolled-up cargo pants, flat-soled tennis shoes, and graphic T-shirts.
“Yeah, get out of here, old man!” One of them tossed something at the Wizard. I couldn’t tell what it was. Maybe a wadded-up paper towel or a receipt.
The Wizard lunged at the teen.
“Hey, Lars, knock it off!” Hunter bellowed to the skater kid. Then he shook the wrench at the Wizard again. “If you lay a finger on my son, I’ll kill you. You hear me? I’ll kill you!”
“No. This is not okay.” Carlos jumped up and went to intervene.
“I’m calling Doug.” Mom had already pulled out her cell phone.
Andy and Sterling followed me toward the entrance of the garden.
Carlos used his Spanish accent to his advantage, stretching out his syllables and enunciating a faint lisp. “What is the problem?” He spoke with his hands. “Is there something we can do to help?”
Hunter brushed him off. “Stay out of it. This is between me and the old man.” He narrowed his eyes at the Wizard.
Lars, the skater kid, thrust out his chest. “Yeah, get moving, old man.”
Laney came out from her food truck. “Leave him alone!”
Hunter yanked Lars away from the Wizard.
Laney wiped her hands on the floral apron tied around her waist and approached the Wizard. Her voice was calm and gentle. “Come with me and have some iced tea. I made a fresh batch—coconut and pineapple—your favorite.”
The Wizard flung his long purple cape to one side and stopped the bike so quickly it made a screeching noise and left a skid mark on the street. Laney ran toward him, as he almost fell over. He recovered, planted one bare foot on the pavement, and swiveled his head toward Hunter. “I see things, you know. I see things!”
Hunter threw his hands around his chest. “Sure you do, crazy.”
The skater kids snickered.
“I know who did it! I see things!” the Wizard repeated. “I see things!”
Laney reached out her arm and tried to steer him toward the food truck. “Come with me. Let’s have a glass of iced tea and take a little break.”
He threw her arm off of him. “I know what’s happening! I see things!”
Sterling looked to me. “Is he okay?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know.”
Hunter retreated into his shop, dragging the group of skaters with him, but not without a final warning. “I don’t care what you think you’ve seen, you crazy lunatic. Stay away from my bikes.” He smacked the wrench on the metal handrail. A ringing sound reverberated. Other shop owners had come outside to see what the commotion was all about.
The Wizard tucked his cape underneath him so it wouldn’t get caught in the spokes, did a half circle around us, and sped off screaming. “I’m watching! I’m watching you!”
Laney let out a long sigh as we returned to the garden. “Hunter needs to stop. It just agitates him.”
“What do you think he meant by ‘seeing things’?” I asked.
She twisted the strings on her apron. “Who knows? He has some serious mental-health issues. I wish he would accept help. There are so many social services available that he could connect with, but he refuses. Trust me, I’ve been trying to get him help for years.”
I knew that was a common theme amongst Ashland’s small homeless population. Thomas, my longtime friend and lead detective, had often talked about his frustration with trying to solve the problem and getting people off the streets. “It’s complicated, Juliet,” he had once said. “Ashland is unique in that we have many more alternatives than other towns our size, but the problem is that if someone doesn’t want help, we can’t force it.”
“I understand,” I said to Laney as we approached her cheerful food truck, painted pale lemon yellow with raspberry pink hibiscus flowers. “Let us know if there’s anything we can do.”
“You’ll see a lot of the Wizard around here,” she said, staring at the bike path. Her face had splotched to match the raspberry color of her food truck. My instincts told me that she was angry, yet her words were filled with concern. “It would be great if you could make sure that your staff understands he’s not a threat, and of course, I try to save leftovers for him.”
“We’ll do the same.” I nodded to my team.
Mom squeezed Laney’s hand. “We’ll take good care of him. That’s what community is all about.”
Laney gave her a half-hearted smile and returned to her truck. The rest of us reconvened in the garden except for Carlos. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to mollify the situation or if in the process of trying to calm Hunter down he had he gotten a sales pitch for an electric bike. Carlos had had his eye on an electric bike for a while. They were a necessity with Ashland’s steep, hilly terrain.
We reconvened around a bistro table in desperate need of freshening up.
“Well, shall we talk strategy?” Mom asked, trying to change the tone. “I want to hear your brainstorms.”
Andy pushed two of the bistro tables together. We sat around them as Sterling dished up samples of his newest concrete creations—smoked tart cherry, peach and maple crumble, toasted white chocolate almond brittle, and dark-chocolate sea salt. Each flavor melted in my mouth.
“While you’re tasting, take a look at these sketches.” Andy passed around colorful drawings. “Steph did these for us. You’ll see that we moved the bistro tables to the east side of the lawn. We’d like to create a stone path here.” Andy pointed to the middle section of the overgrown grass. “That way we can contain flow for customers who want to grab a coffee or concrete to go, and leave the west side of the lawn for a play area. We were thinking we could build a sand table and keep bubbles and beach balls on hand.”
“This is lovely,” Mom noted. “Stephanie did a beautiful job.”
It was true. Stephanie’s artistic vision of what the new space could look like filled me with eager anticipation. Dividing the space into unique areas made sense. The raised garden beds on the far left could definitely be salvaged. I could almost smell the fresh mint and strawberries we could grow to use in our concretes.
Andy continued. “We’d like to buy red-and-teal umbrellas to match with Torte’s branding, but otherwise we’ll use everything on hand. The coffee bar could use a new paint job, and so will these tables and chairs. The perimeter fence and gates are also going to need sprucing up.” He pointed to the right side of the garden where two booths had been built into the fence. Each had an outdoor candelabra hanging above it. “The booths are so cool and the candleholders have to stay. We’re going to string lights in a zigzagging pattern from the perimeter. Otherwise, the only other
thing we’ll need to invest in is new signage and menus.”
“Speaking of signage”—Sterling took over—“we’ve come up with a few initial name ideas. Tell us what you think of Triple Torte, Cream and Custard, and last but not least, Scoops.”
“Possibilities,” Mom said with her eyes focused on the coffee bar.
“Hmmm. I’ll have to think on them, but I love the direction you’re going in. My first instinct is Triple Torte because I can picture an ice cream cone with three scoops.”
Andy ribbed Sterling. They shared a laugh. “Funny you should say that, boss.” He reached into his bag and handed us cutouts of ice cream cones with three scoops and the words TRIPLE TORTE written in the same fleur de lis font we used at Torte. “Stephanie designed this as a mock-up logo.”
“It’s great.” I was impressed with how much thought they’d put into their presentation. “But, I kind of love Scoops too. It’s simple and sweet.”
“Just like you, boss.” Andy made a goofy face.
Carlos came up behind us, taking the empty chair next to me. He placed his arm around my shoulder. His brow was damp and he had taken off his vest. “What did I miss?”
I handed him the ice cream cutout. “We’re talking about possible names.” I lowered my voice. “How was Hunter? Were you able to help him chill out?”
He scowled. “No. I tried to calm him down. I did not like the way he was treating that man. Those boys too. If Ramiro ever behaved like that to one of his elders, I would be absolutely furious and I would know that I had not done my job as a father.” He matched my tone. “It is obvious that the Wizard—is that what you call him?”
I nodded.
Carlos’s dark eyes were severe. It took a lot to rattle him. “He is in need of help. Not people screaming and shouting at him like this. Did you see that? Those kids threw things at the poor old man. It is terrible. The boy who was antagonizing him, Lars, he is Hunter’s son and Hunter does nothing to stop him. Unbelievable.”
My eyes drifted across the street. The skater kids had come outside again. They took off on their longboards in the direction of the park. I hoped they weren’t heading after the Wizard to harass him more.
“Julieta, I have a bad feeling about him. I think it will be important that you keep your distance. I do not trust him. He has a terrible temper.” Carlos glanced across the street toward Cyclepath. “It worries me to have you and your young staff across from him.”
“I’m sure it will be fine,” I replied. “He was probably upset and got worked up.”
“Maybe.” Carlos didn’t sound convinced. “Still, I think it will be better if you stay away.”
We turned our attention to Andy as he poured us samples of his cold brew. Carlos’ warning was too late. I had already signed a lease. Whether we wanted to or not, we were about to become neighbors with Cyclepath—and avoiding Hunter was out of the question.
Chapter Four
For the next few days Sterling, Andy, and I spent the bulk of our time at Scoops. We had put the list of potential names to a vote, and Scoops was the clear winner. It was good timing to be away from the bakeshop as we had a few weeks before things would start to ramp up once the Oregon Shakespeare Festival officially launched its new season. For the moment the theater was in previews, which drew a loyal following in Ashland, but the rush of the tourist crowds would begin in earnest in April and May and continue through the heat of the summer.
I arrived at the new space on a cool but crisp late March morning. Knowing that today’s task was sanding and staining the coffee bar and staining the fence, trellises, and gazebo, I had dressed for the occasion in a pair of well-worn jeans, tennis shoes, and an old sweatshirt from my cruise ship days. It was azure blue—the signature color of the Amour of the Seas where Carlos and I had met and fallen in love—with the words Seas the Day written in white scroll across the chest. Crew members had received the sweatshirts as part of a team-building exercise. Seas the Day had been our staff motto thanks to an overzealous cruise director who loved a good pun.
The Railroad District was much quieter than the plaza. It was nearly ten o’clock. When I had left Torte there wasn’t an empty table in the bakeshop. The same couldn’t be said for our new digs. Workers stacked empty pallets at the Grange and a few locals wandered into the antique and pet shops directly across the street. Nana’s food truck pumped out intoxicating smells of sweet onions and garlic, but it wouldn’t open until noon. Otherwise the neighborhood was empty, except for three kids with skateboards hanging out in front of Cyclepath, one who I recognized as Lars, Hunter’s son. I wondered why they weren’t in school.
Andy and Sterling were down the street getting paint supplies at the hardware store. That was one of many benefits of living in a small town. We rarely had to go far for supplies. The Grange was on the opposite side of the garden. And the hardware store and lumberyard were just past that. The organic pet store sat across the street in a converted cottage. I watched as a young woman stopped to allow her two corgis to drink from a fountain designed for furry, four-legged friends.
While I waited for the guys to return, I started pulling weeds. It felt good to get my hands dirty. The calming sound of gentle music floated from Addie’s yoga studio as I snipped and trimmed the border. A handful of morning yoga-goers streamed past me on their way to class at Namaste. They were dressed in similar attire to Addie—stretchy yoga pants, slip-on shoes, and loose, free-flowing tops. A woman I recognized as a regular at Torte stopped to say hello. She toted a rolled-up yoga mat and a water bottle under one arm.
“I heard a rumor that Torte was going to open a second shop here. This might be dangerous for my post-workout routine,” she joked.
“Technically speaking we won’t be doing any baking here, if it’s any consolation.” I went on to explain our concept for Scoops.
“That’s great! I’ll be able to get my coffee fix.” She grinned. “I can’t imagine smelling your delicious bread and pastries baking while trying to concentrate on Warrior Two.”
“No need to worry. Everything we serve here will be cold.” Maybe we should add teas and smoothies to the menu for the post-yoga crowd.
She left with a promise to return for our grand opening. I went through the side gate and around the yoga studio entrance to the back of the building that sat directly across from the railroad tracks. Addie had told me that she would leave us garbage, recycling, and yard debris bins.
The businesses ended at the tracks. To my right an alleyway offered access to parking for Cyclepath and a lawyer’s office. The alleyway turned into a bike path farther down at Railroad Park. A six-foot-high chain-link fence served as a barrier to the open grassy fields on the other side of the tracks.
I spotted a herd of deer bedded down in the reedy grasses. The flaxen mountains in the distance were dusted with snow. I could definitely get used to these views, I thought as I found a forest-green yard-debris can. The backside of the yoga studio and Hunter’s bike shop across the street had been tagged in the same purple spray paint as the fridge in our new kitchen. There were broken bottles near the train tracks and what looked like a makeshift tent erected with a blue tarp and some plywood.
Is that where the Wizard slept?
I didn’t have time to get closer because a man’s voice rang out on the tracks. “Get back here!”
I turned to see two men barreling their bikes down the path directly at me. I recognized the Wizard from his cape and retro bike. The other bike looked like it had been ridden through a mud pit. Layers of caked dirt and grime covered the spokes and handlebars.
They were coming at me so fast that I froze.
Behind them a younger man, riding a bike with a trailer attached, shouted for them to stop. “I know you stole my product! Stop!”
The Wizard made a sharp left turn to avoid running into me. His counterpart slammed on his brakes and steered to the right. That took him over the gravel berm above the tracks. His bike screeched to a halt and catapulted
him over the handlebars. I let go of the yard-debris can and ran to help him.
“Are you okay?” I bent down next to him on the gravel.
He moaned. The guy was much younger than the Wizard, probably mid-twenties or early thirties.
“Are you hurt? Should I call an ambulance?” I asked.
The Wizard flipped his bike around and rode over to us. “NO! No police.”
“Okay.” I threw up my hands. “I won’t call the police, but your friend might need an ambulance.”
The man who’d been chasing them rolled up on his bike and screeched to a halt next to us. His loose baggy pants were knotted with rubber bands at the ankles to keep them from tangling with his spokes. He skidded one foot along the gravel. “Karma sucks, doesn’t it? Stop stealing from me!”
The Wizard’s hands flew up in the air. “You stop! You stop!”
“Touch my product, and you’ll regret it.” He didn’t bother to check to see whether the guy on the ground was okay before speeding off toward town, with his black bike trailer rattling behind him.
The guy on the ground flipped onto his back. His right palm was badly cut and bleeding. “No cops,” he grunted, trying to sit up.
“Take it slow,” I cautioned. “What’s your name?”
“Sky.” His hands were as dirty as his bike. Blood seeped from the gash on his hand.
“Let me run into the yoga studio. I’m sure Addie has a first-aid kit.”
The Wizard yelped. “No! She’s a bad woman.” He got off his bike and rocked back on forth on his heels while tapping his temples.
I glanced around for anything clean that we could use to apply pressure to the wound. There was nothing. The man’s ragged clothing was grimy and stained. It was evident that he’d been sleeping outside for a while by the twigs and branches embedded in his dreadlocks and his lack of personal hygiene.
Chilled to the Cone Page 4