“Go figure.” I glanced at Torte. Leave it to Richard Lord to copy us. This is exactly what I had meant when I told Carlos that Richard couldn’t be trusted.
“I’ll get some more sample product for you down in the Railroad District a bit later if you want.” Dean rearranged a few bottles in the cart.
“I think we’re good for the time being. We’re in renovation mode.”
“Let me know if you change your mind. I’m down that way all the time.” He tightened a rubber band around his left ankle and hopped on his bike. “See you around.”
I watched him ride away. Dean had to be lying. It made me want to reconsider our partnership. What had he really been doing on the bike path last night?
“Juliet Capshaw,” Richard’s voice boomed. “Well, well, well. Come to spy, have you?” He folded his beefy arms across his chest.
“Good morning to you too, Richard.” I took a step backward.
“Speaking of mornings, I opened a special gift this morning—my eyes. You should try it. You might learn a few things about this town and what’s going on.” He threw his head back and let out a nasty chuckle. As usual Richard was dressed in an outrageous outfit. His plaid orange-and-green golf pants were one size too small. A snug neon orange V-neck sweater and a checkered cap completed the look.
“You sniffing around for dirt?” He bent his fingers in a motion for me to come closer.
“Nope. On my way to work.” I started to walk away.
“Not so fast, young lady!” Richard snapped both his fingers. “I think we have some things to chat about, don’t we?”
“Like what?” I rubbed my shoulders to keep warm. “You copying us yet again?”
“Me? Copy you? Ha!” He removed a cigar from the pocket on his sweater. “What, you’re worried about a little friendly competition?”
I didn’t bother to respond.
“I’ll have you know that I had the idea for Shakescream months ago.” He ran the cigar under his nose.
“Shakescream?” I couldn’t hide the sarcasm in my tone.
“That’s right. Our ice cream stand opens next week. We’ll be serving ice cream ode to Coneo and Juliet.”
Classic.
I wanted to ask him if he was planning to serve scoops of whatever was on sale in the freezer aisle at the grocery store, but instead, I forced a smile. “Good luck, Richard. It sounds perfect for the Merry Windsor.”
“Hey, I’m not done with you.” Richard clenched the cigar between his teeth. “Where’s your errand boy?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” That was the truth.
“Your husband. You’ve got him running around town doing your dirty work.”
What?
“Richard, I don’t have time for this. I need to get to the bakeshop.” I turned and walked away.
He said something under his breath I couldn’t hear. Then he yelled, “Do your own dirty work, Capshaw.”
I ignored his attempts to engage me in a debate. Instead I squared my shoulders and headed for Torte.
Richard Lord had no shame. He blatantly copied everything we did at Torte. Ice cream? Well, let him try. I knew that at the end of the day he cared more about his bottom line than the quality of his product. If he was going to steal our ideas, it was all the more motivation to make sure our concretes and custards were top notch. But what did he mean about Carlos doing my dirty work?
Chapter Twelve
I pushed away my thoughts of Richard Lord trolling our ideas as I prepped the kitchen for the morning. It started with heating the ovens, lighting a fire in the wood-burning pizza oven, and taking butter and eggs out of the walk-in fridge so they could warm to room temperature. Next, I reviewed our custom cake orders and did a quick inventory of the pantry and walk-in fridge, making note of what we referred to as “FIFO”—first in, first out. We constantly rotated stock of what had been recently purchased so that the oldest products were used first in order to eliminate waste.
Andy breezed in as I was labeling bunches of fresh herbs. He tossed his puffy jacket on the coatrack and made a beeline for upstairs. “I have lots I want to talk about this morning, boss, but first, coffee.”
He would get no argument from me. While he tempted me with aromas of toasted coconut and pomegranates, I began whipping butter and powdered sugar together in a mixer. As they creamed into a smooth mixture, I added a touch of salt, flour, and cornstarch. The roses Carlos had sprinkled in my bath last night had given me inspiration for a special cookie. I would make meltaways—soft, buttery, melt-in-your mouth cookies—and decorate them with pale spring buttercream roses.
I divided the dough into three batches and added a different extract to each—vanilla, almond, and lemon/orange. Then I covered the dough and placed it in the fridge to chill for thirty minutes. The earthy scent of applewood smoking in the wood-burning pizza oven made my stomach rumble. Mom and I hadn’t been able to believe our luck when the crew working on basement renovations had unearthed the fireplace. It had become the center point of the kitchen, and had elevated our baking game. There was nothing like the deep flavor of a slightly charred flatbread or a skillet mac and cheese baked in a wood-burning oven.
Andy came downstairs holding two mugs of coffee. “Here you go, boss. Give this a try.”
I took the coffee from him. A faint hint of citrus hit my nose. Upon closer inspection the light layer of whipping cream on top appeared to have a ribbon of lemon curd and thin swirls of lemon peel. “Is this a lemon coffee?”
“Don’t judge.” Andy held his coffee to his nose. “Smell. Take in the aroma. Just like you taught me.”
“I’m not judging. The citrus is really coming through.” I used my hand to waft the steam closer.
“Okay. Good. Good.” Andy gave a serious nod of approval. “Go ahead and take a sip.”
I lifted the coffee to my lips.
“But wait! Make sure you get a bit of everything—the whipped cream, the lemon zest, the curd, and the latte.” He demonstrated by tilting his mug at an angle and taking a slow sip.
I did the same. The taste was unlike anything I had tried in coffee form. Bright notes of the tangy lemon mingled with a light vanilla latte. The result was nothing short of mouthwatering. Andy’s creation was like a sip of spring in my mouth.
“This is incredible,” I said, taking another taste.
“You like it?” His eyes were hopeful. “I had a dream about it last night. I couldn’t sleep. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I think it was because of the Wizard. I guess it kind of messed me up, too.”
“That’s normal, Andy,” I tried to reassure him. “If you weren’t feeling a little unsettled after seeing a man die, I would be concerned.”
He set his coffee down and then opened the top drawer of the decorating station and began organizing our massive collection of sprinkles, lining up each container in a tidy row as if he was trying to distract himself. “Yeah, it’s weird because I felt really calm in the moment. I knew that Sterling was freaking and I could tell that you were pretty out of it too, so I guess I just kind of took over, but man, when I got home last night it all came rushing back.”
“Andy, I’m so sorry.” I reached for his arm. “I should have checked in before you left.”
“No, it’s not your fault, boss. I’m just saying it’s weird how we all deal with seeing death differently. I guess that’s why my grandma has always told me I should be a cop or firefighter. I was talking to her about it last night and she said I’m a natural under pressure.”
“She’s right. You were amazing.” I lifted my mug in a toast. “Almost amazing as this … lemon latte?”
“Yeah, or maybe something like lemon cream supreme? Lemon dream latte?” Andy closed the sprinkle drawer and took another drink of his coffee. “It was kind of like a jolt of caffeine. A serious rush. My heart was pounding in my chest all night. At first I thought I might be having a heart attack or something, but my grandma told me it was a panic
attack. Flight or fight, right?”
“Right.” I leaned in. “Is there anything I can do to help? Do you want to take the day off?”
“Nah. I’m fine. Well, maybe not fine, but like I said, I talked it through with my grandma last night and then I came up with the idea for the lemon dream latte, so I got it out of my head.” He clutched the coffee cup.
“You said you wanted to talk, though.” I nudged him. I wanted to make sure there wasn’t more he needed to get off his chest.
“Right. It’s about the Wizard. You remember how the Professor told us to think about anything we may remember?”
I nodded.
“When I was up late last night I remembered something. Two things, actually. I’m not sure if either of them are a big deal or not, so I thought I would ask you about it and then you can tell me if you think I should call the Professor. I don’t want to bug him, but he did say that even something small might lead to a breakthrough.”
“Absolutely, and I know he meant that.”
Andy finished his coffee and set his empty cup on the marble countertop. “This happened a couple of weeks ago. I was down at Railroad Park throwing the Frisbee around with some friends and our Frisbee went too far. It flew over the fence and the blackberry vines. I went to retrieve it and saw Addie and Dean on the railroad tracks.”
“Okay.”
“It’s weird because I don’t want to start a rumor or anything.” Andy bit his fingernail. “They looked really shady. Like it was a drug deal or something.”
This was huge news. “Maybe Addie was buying milk from Dean,” I suggested, knowing how lame it sounded as the words escaped my lips.
“For her yoga classes?” Andy ran his fingers through his shaggy hair. “I don’t know. She handed him an envelope and he gave her something in return from his pocket. Maybe it was nothing, but they both looked really skittish and broke apart right away.”
“Yeah. That sounds like a potential drug deal. You definitely need to tell the Professor. What was the other thing you witnessed?”
“That same day, I saw Laney Lee talking to the Wizard, and she didn’t sound very happy.”
My heart dropped. I didn’t want my friend Laney to have had any involvement in the Wizard’s murder.
“The thing is, it wasn’t like they were fighting exactly, but they were really deep in conversation. I could tell they were talking about something serious. My Frisbee flew in the wrong direction and landed at their feet. I guess I need to work on my Frisbee skills, huh?” Andy made a goofy face. “Anyway, they were sitting at one of the picnic tables by the gazebo. I ran over to grab my Frisbee and I overheard Laney say that she was going to have to turn the Wizard in.”
“Turn him in?”
Andy shrugged. “That’s what I heard. I grabbed my Frisbee because I could tell that Laney didn’t want anyone listening in to their conversation. Not that I was trying to. Honestly.”
“I wonder what she meant by that?” I twisted my ponytail.
“No idea. I got my Frisbee and didn’t hear any more. Do you think I should tell the Professor? I mean, there’s not really much to tell.”
I finished off my coffee. “Yes. You should. He will want to know all of this. You heard him yesterday—his words were that no detail is too small.”
“Okay.” Andy picked up his empty mug, while I took another sip of my creamy lemon latte. “Good. I didn’t want to be a nuisance, or accuse Addie and Dean of drug dealing if it was something else, but it looked bad. You’re right. I’ll call him.”
“Good. He asked for our input. He can decide if the information you have is worth pursuing or not.” I drank the last drop of coffee. “Please tell me this is going on the special’s board.”
“On it right now, boss.” Andy grabbed our empty cups.
“Also, please know that I’m here if you need to talk more, okay? I’m glad that you were able to talk about what happened with your grandma, but I don’t want you to feel like you’re alone. We’re a team.” I held his gaze and patted his forearm.
“Yeah, boss.” He gave my hand a warm squeeze. “I know.”
I watched him bounce up the stairs. I felt grateful that he’d been willing to admit that the Wizard’s death had upset him more than he realized, and I made a mental note to keep an eye on him today. Could he be right about Addie and Dean? Was there more to Dean’s milk deliveries than cream and yogurt? It would explain him biking at night under the guise of delivering. I was going to have to pay more attention to them. Andy’s revelation about Laney made me even more anxious to find some time to chat with my friend. What had she meant by “turning the Wizard in”? Could the Wizard have been mixed up in drug dealing too?
Sterling, Stephanie, Marty, and Bethany arrived around the same time. I loved the frenetic energy of morning prep. Marty pitched yeast and warmed the bread oven for proofing. Sterling chopped onions, garlic, carrots, celery, and fresh herbs for a creamy chicken dumpling soup, while Steph and Bethany mixed vats of cake and cookie dough for walk-in and specialty orders.
My meltaway cookies were ready to bake. I lined a cookie sheet with parchment paper and arranged one-inch balls of the chilled dough in neat rows. They would bake for eight to ten minutes or until their centers were firm.
Then I whipped our classic buttercream with pretty pale natural food gels and a touch of the extracts I had used in the cookie batter. For the vanilla meltaways I tinted the buttercream a lovely blushing rose with a hint of vanilla. The almond meltaways would get frosted with robin’s egg blue and almond buttercream, and the citrus meltaways would have fresh orange and lemon zest added to their pale yellow buttercream.
After the cookies had cooled, I filled a piping bag with the pink vanilla buttercream and piped a delicate rose on the top. I repeated the piping technique with the blue and yellow buttercream until I had trays filled with dainty spring flowers.
“Ohhhh, those are so cute,” Bethany gushed. “Let me get a pic.” She took a break from spreading dark chocolate cake batter into eight-inch rounds. When she removed her apron, it revealed yet another punny T-shirt: a melting cone of ice cream and the words JUST CHILL.
“Great shirt,” I said, centering the plate on the island for her photo.
“I wore it honor of Scoops.” She snapped a picture of the meltaways. “These are definitely going on our social media.”
I passed around a plate for the team to taste.
“What gives them the crumbly texture?” Steph asked, studying one of the cookies that she’d broken in half.
“Cornstarch.” I grinned. “It’s the secret ingredient. That, and there are no eggs in this recipe.”
“They remind me of something,” Marty said, polishing off a citrus meltaway. “Something that my mom used to buy at the grocery store during the holidays, but I can’t recall the name.”
“Yeah, they almost have a vintage flavor,” Sterling said. He stood at the gas stove sweating the vegetables for his soup in olive oil.
“Is vintage good?” I asked.
“The best!” Bethany interrupted. “Vintage is totally on point right now. These will be a hit.”
“As long as you approve, I’ll take a tray upstairs. They should mix well with Andy’s special. Has anyone tried it yet?”
“The lemon dream latte?” Steph asked with a scowl. “It sounds weird.”
“I thought so too,” Bethany replied, snapping a picture of the meltaways. “You have to try it. It’s amazing. Soooo good. I swear. It might change your life.”
“Ha!” Steph scoffed.
I appreciated that their energies were polar opposites and yet they worked together seamlessly. We spent the next few hours baking pastries, flatbreads, and running up and down the stairs to restock the pastry case. Torte was a busy rush of familiar faces through mid-morning. Andy’s lemon dream lattes sold in record numbers. My meltaways disappeared faster than we could bake new batches.
It was always rewarding when new creations were well recei
ved by our customers. We stocked a variety of classic sweet and savory pastries that we offered every day, like our pesto egg croissants, sourdough blueberry bread, and salted caramel tarts. But, experimenting in the kitchen was the best part of owning a bakeshop. There wasn’t a day that went by when my mind didn’t drift off into a dreamland of creamy strawberry rhubarb custards or basil-and-tomato wood-fired pizzas. Creativity breathed new life into the bakeshop and kept our customers coming back for more.
The morning surge had begun to dwindle not long after ten. I went upstairs to assess the damage. Sequoia was wiping down the coffee bar. Rosa cleared tables in the dining room, and Andy manned the espresso machine. Fortunately, the pastry case was well stocked for lunch, except for one empty tray waiting to be filled with a new batch of meltaways.
“Things look relatively calm,” I said to Rosa.
She set a pile of dishes in a bin. “It’s been a steady stream, but we’ve stayed on top of it.” She pointed to the front windows. “Now that there’s a lull, Stephanie and I will swap out the window display.”
We’d had shamrocks, shiny pieces of gold, and beautiful fake chocolate stout cakes in the windows for St. Patrick’s Day. Now that the holiday was behind us, it was time to give the display a face-lift.
“Stephanie and I were thinking of using your rose cookies as our inspiration point,” Rosa said. “Since things are starting to bloom, we thought we could string tissue paper roses and fill the base with flower petal cutouts.” She showed me one of Stephanie’s sketches. With my expanding duties at Scoops, I had given Stephanie and Rosa full autonomy over our window displays. Steph was a talented artist and Rosa had an eye for simple elegance and clean lines. Thus far they had not disappointed.
Mom and I had one goal when it came to Torte—to make sure that everyone who walked through our front door felt welcomed, like family. We arranged comfortable seating around the atomic fireplace downstairs, and cozy booths and intimate dining tables upstairs where we encouraged our guests to linger over a fresh pot of French press. For our youngest guests we kept a collection of toys, books, and puzzles in a basket along with reserving a section of our chalkboard menu for little fingers. This morning one of our preschool patrons had drawn a snow family with carrot noses and button eyes.
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