“Of course.”
“You may want to sneak back into the kitchen before intermission just to make sure that everything is plated to your standards,” Stewart continued. “We only want the best for the Cabaret and for Torte. I made sure that the programs reflect the fact that we’ve partnered with you. It should be some great advertising for the bakery. The entire first week is already sold out.”
He had inched closer and closer to the door as he spoke. “Listen, I have about a million fires to put out, but if you need anything tonight, you come find me, okay?”
I started to tell him that I wasn’t sure this was a good match, but Shelly swept in with her cape billowing behind her.
“Stew, come with me now, we have a major issue with Faraday.” She yanked him from the room.
I stared at them in disbelief. This was no way to operate a professional theater company. Stewart had been in the business for years. He was well respected and was a revered arts professor at Southern Oregon College. Shelly had been a guest director at the Festival multiple times. I couldn’t believe they were all over the place tonight.
My conversation would have to wait, so I went to the kitchen to check on Helen. She had plated our three signature desserts. A crew of volunteer waiters dressed in black slacks and matching black Polos watched with rapt attention as Helen showcased her pastry skills.
Coming up with the menu had been a challenge, but we were always up to the task. We wanted to create elegant and decadent desserts for the Cabaret’s inaugural audiences, but had to take into account that we wouldn’t have any way to heat things up. The good news was that Stewart had informed us that the kitchen’s industrial refrigerators were operable, so we could store cold items until just before intermission.
After experimenting with a variety of recipes, we landed on a devil’s food cake with Helen’s famous chocolate buttercream icing. That we would serve with a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream on the side and a drizzle of dark chocolate sauce. For a fruiter option we had created berry parfaits with blackberries, raspberries, and strawberries. The parfaits were layered with a rich almond custard and topped with a crisp butter cookie. Lastly, we had made individual banana toffee pies with caramel crusts. Those we would complete with a generous piping of whipped cream and chocolate shavings.
Helen was demonstrating how to pipe the whipped cream onto the pies when I came into the kitchen. “It’s simple. Hold the piping bag like this,” she said, positioning her thin arm in the air. “Start from one side of the pie and work your way in a circle. Repeat the pattern until the entire pie is covered in whipped cream.” Everyone leaned closer to watch her pipe perfect spirals on the toffee pie. “Next take a bar of dark chocolate and shave it on the top.” She completed the artistic decorating to applause. Her cheeks warmed with color. I smiled, knowing that the praise embarrassed her, but it was well deserved.
“Why don’t you each get a piping bag and give it a try,” Helen suggested. She could have been a culinary instructor with her gentle nature and innate ability to bring out the best in everyone around her.
“It looks like this is the only place in the entire building that’s under control. Well done, Chef Capshaw,” I said in her ear.
She turned and raised her brow in the direction of the theater. “How’s it going out there?”
“It’s better not to know. Sometimes denial is a wonderful thing.”
“Excellent piping,” Helen commented to one of the volunteers.
“How did you get that peak in the center of your pie?” the woman asked.
Helen picked up a piping bag and expertly demonstrated her technique again. “When you get to the end, give the bag a little flip of your wrist.” A perfect ring of fluffy peaks formed a neat mountain of whipped cream on Helen’s test pie.
The volunteers practiced again.
“It’s not only the physical state of things, but I’ve witnessed a number of arguments amongst staff and the acting company. I supposed it’s normal for tempers to be running high on opening night, but the mood is uncomfortable.”
“Were you able to talk to Stewart?”
I shook my head.
The calm of Helen’s kitchen was disrupted by Chuck. He ran into me, literally. He was breathless. His stage makeup glistened and was beginning to streak with sweat. “Did Pat go down there?” He pointed to the off-limits stairwell that led downstairs to Rumors.
I shrugged. “Not since I’ve been here.”
“Ah. I don’t have time for this.” Chuck braced the base of the door with one foot. He used his full body weight with the other to force the door open. It looked odd to see the actor in his sailor costume battling with a door. He took the stairs two at a time and disappeared out of sight.
Minutes later he reappeared at the bottom of the stairwell. Pat’s voice echoed up the stairs. “If you dare set foot in here again, Faraday, you’re dead. Understand? You’re a dead man. I never want to see your face around here again.”
Helen looked to me.
“No idea,” I mouthed.
The volunteer waitstaff had gone silent. It was impossible not to overhear the fight.
“You’re going to regret this, Pat.”
“Not as much as you are, Faraday. You’re a dead man.”
Chapter Seven
“I have a bad feeling about where this is going,” I said to the Professor.
He, like me, had his head bent forward to read my dad’s perfect penmanship. “Indeed.” He shifted his shoulders and cut into a second slice of pizza. “As I mentioned, Ashland in the eighties was a different place. None of us were flush with cash. We had to create our own destiny, and that meant long, arduous hours and plenty of resourcefulness when it came to launching new endeavors like the Cabaret. Let me assure you that the Cabaret wasn’t the only business in town that struggled. I suppose that’s one of the reasons Will agreed to help, despite his reservations. It was that community attitude and spirit that pulled us through the difficult times, but in reading these passages, I’m also reminded how young we were. We might have been wise to be a bit more skeptical.”
The Professor sighed and read on.
In a miracle of all miracles the show opened on time. I got swept up into the clever choreography and staging. The acoustics in the old church were nothing short of stunning. Helen clutched my hand under the table as we were sucked into the happy, vibrant sounds of tap dancing and the beautiful harmonies of the chorus. The musical production was on par with shows I had seen on Broadway. Even Chef Ronald’s appetizers were better than expected. I especially enjoyed his beer-battered mozzarella sticks with marinara dipping sauce.
Helen, Doug, and his date laughed along with the rest of the audience through the first half. The musical was fast-paced, zany, and upbeat. It was a total departure from most of the shows I’d seen at the Festival. I was floored by Shelly’s use of the small space and her deliberate staging. Actors swapped out costumes right in front of our eyes. Props and set changes were worked into the choreography. The entire show felt intimate. Actors traversed through the rows of tables and stopped every so often to engage the audience. It was like nothing I’d ever experienced before.
I excused myself a few minutes before intermission to check on progress in the kitchen. Helen’s crash course in plating had paid off. The volunteers had followed her instructions to the letter. I was pleased to see how sophisticated each dessert looked.
Ronald kept a watchful eye from the corner of the kitchen. His twitchy demeanor put me on guard. He tapped a pack of cigarettes on the counter like he was in need of a smoke, and bounced his foot on the cement floor. “Lovely job on the appetizers,” I said to him as the waitstaff readied trays of desserts. As soon as the applause sounded and the house lights came on they would begin serving. There was a narrow fifteen-minute window during intermission to serve each table, refill coffee, tea, and cocktails, and settle the dining bills. “I especially enjoyed the breaded mozzarella with marinara sauce.”
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br /> He tugged a single cigarette from the pack and held it beneath his nose. “That’s garbage compared to my original menu. Stewart thinks everything is too expensive. He’s constantly on me about sticking to the budget. I keep telling him this place is going to bomb if he doesn’t spend time and money investing in the restaurant. It’s dinner and a show. It’s not a dinner show.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Is there a difference? Yes, there’s a difference. A dinner show is all one-ticket price. You get a song-and-dance number, a rubber piece of chicken, and a stale cookie. That’s not what he sold me on when he hired me. The audience pays for the show. If they want dinner and dessert, it’s separate. That way we can focus on the food. Ashland needs another fine dining establishment and we have a chance right now to be that, but Stewart won’t listen. He has Chuck in his ear. What does Chuck know about running a restaurant?” His face blotched with color. I wanted to reach out and put my hand on his leg to stop it from bouncing on the floor. Like when I had witnessed him and Chuck get into it, I wondered if he was on something or in need of a fix.
“Chuck is advising Stewart on the menu?” I was confused.
“On everything.” Ronald breathed in the smell of the unlit cigarette and returned it to the pack. “Chuck is basically running this place and no one understands why. The guy has to go. If he doesn’t, the cast and crew are going to walk.”
“Why?” I moved to make way for the waitstaff as applause and cheers sounded in the theater. The audience had obviously enjoyed the first act.
“Don’t ask me. I’m the chef.” Ronald stuffed the pack of cigarettes in his camo chef’s coat. “I need a smoke.”
He left, and I helped scoop vanilla ice cream on the already plated slices of devil’s food cake.
Applause erupted in the theater. That was our cue to start sending out the dessert course. Helen hurried into the kitchen and immediately tied her Torte apron around her waist. “What can I do?”
She dotted the pastel parfaits with butter cookies and handed a tray to a volunteer. We refilled coffee carafes and made sure that no table went without dessert. Intermission went by in a mad dash of desserts and drinks. In what felt like mere minutes the lights flashed and audience members were asked to return to their seats.
The volunteers returned with empty plates—a good sign that people had enjoyed the desserts. Helen and I went back to our table for the second act. It was as delightful as the first. Despite the last-minute rush to get the theater show-ready, the evening appeared to be a huge success. The audience gave the actors a standing ovation at the end of the show. People mingled and chatted about how wonderful it was to have another theater in town. I overheard quite a few comments about wanting to return again for another slice of devil’s food cake.
We circled the room together, talking with friends and fellow business owners. Sometime close to eleven, I looked over to see Helen trying to stifle a yawn.
“Why don’t you head home?” I said, handing her the keys to the VW. “I’ll check in with Stewart about tomorrow and do one last kitchen walk-through.”
“How will you get home?”
Doug came up behind us. He wore a pair of khaki slacks, matching oversized blazer, and a Hawaiian shirt straight from a scene out of Magnum, P.I. “I’ll take him home, Helen. I might have to take him out for a beer first.”
“What about your date?” Helen glanced around us.
“Ah, she had an early morning meeting, so she already took off.” Doug shrugged. I knew that he had been unlucky in love lately. I wasn’t sure why. He was a great guy. Intelligent, attractive, funny. But finding a woman of equal caliber had been a challenge.
“Uh-oh.” Helen gave me a knowing look. “Not a keeper then?”
Doug winked. “You know me, I like to keep my options open.”
“The eternal bachelor,” I teased my friend.
He nudged me. “Will, you scored Ashland’s best woman, why should I even bother?”
Helen batted at both of us. “Just for that I am going home.” She winked. “Don’t stay out too late, boys.”
“What do you say?” Doug asked. “Can you make it up for a pint or are you too old now?”
“You jest, dear friend. A drink? I’m in.”
“I’ll go bid adieu to our Midnight pals and meet you out front in a few?”
The Midnight Group Doug was referring to was our late-night troupe, many of whom had come to support the cast on opening night. I couldn’t find Stewart anywhere. Maybe he and the cast were already out celebrating. I did check on the kitchen and was impressed to find it in immaculate condition. Three small boxes of leftover desserts had been boxed up and stored in the fridge. Our Torte aprons were hanging from an exposed nail on the wall, and Helen’s extra supplies were carefully arranged in a shopping tote.
Knowing that dessert service had gone smoothly gave me confidence. Maybe this could become a beneficial partnership for us. I found my coat and went to meet Doug outside.
The evening air had a bite to it. I pulled up the collar on my coat. Two streetlights cast a faint glow on Hargadine Street where a row of cute houses lined the sidewalk. Across the street was the parking lot for Ashland’s one and only “skyscraper,” the Mark Antony Hotel that sat at the bottom of the hill. I could hear music from Rumors reverberating in the nightclub next door.
Doug stood waiting for me on the corner. Across the street I could make out the silhouette of someone standing underneath the streetlight smoking. Was it Ronald? Had he been outside since intermission?
I buttoned my coat. “Where to, Doug?”
Doug wrapped a wool scarf around his neck. “I’d say that the world is our oyster, Will, but sadly there are what—maybe two places—in town still open. You want to walk down to the Mark Antony?”
“Maybe we should open a nightclub.”
“You think Helen will go for that? Don’t you have enough on your plate with the bakeshop, Juliet, and now dessert at the Cabaret?”
“Doug, you’re such a realist.” I stuffed my hands into my coat pockets.
“It comes with the territory.” He patted his chest pocket. I knew that he was referring to the fact that his shiny new police badge was tucked inside.
We were about to head down the hill to the vintage hotel, when Chuck Faraday stumbled out of the theater belting the words to “Broadway Baby,” one of the songs from the musical. He saw us and proceeded to tap-dance right into the middle of the street. The guy was definitely not in his right mind.
“Careful there, Chuck,” Doug cautioned.
Chuck tapped on the top of a storm drain, his legs moving like an ostrich learning how to walk.
“He’s done for,” Doug said to me.
“I couldn’t have said it better myself. Either he started drinking right after close of the show, or he’s on something strong.”
“I’d put my money on a combination of drugs and alcohol.”
“Where are you heading, friend?” Doug asked Chuck, who continued to sing and dance in the middle of the street. “Can we give you a lift home?”
Chuck ignored him and started a new number from Dames at Sea—“There’s Something About You.”
“What should we do?” I asked Doug.
“I think we might need to offer him a formal escort home.”
We were about to cross the street when the sound of a revving engine made us both turn around. Out of nowhere a sports car barreled down the street.
My heart thudded. Doug waved and shouted, trying to signal the car, but it was too dark. “Chuck, move!” Doug yelled.
He started toward him just as the car sped up and slammed into Chuck’s body.
Chuck went flying through the air and landed ten feet away with the most horrific thud I had ever heard. The car didn’t stop. It squealed as it made a sharp turn down Second Street and disappeared out of sight.
“Go call nine-one-one,” Doug commanded. He was already halfway to Chuck.
&nb
sp; I ran back into the theater. The front lobby doors were still unlocked, thankfully. No one was in sight, so I raced behind the ticket counter and dialed 9-1-1. “A man’s been hit by a car. We need an ambulance.”
The operator remained calm while I explained what I had witnessed. She stayed on the line until the sound of sirens rang out nearby. I returned to the scene of the crime to find three police cars, an ambulance, and fire truck blocking the street. The glare of their lights dancing off the trees made me dizzy.
I hung back, not wanting to get in anyone’s way. Paramedics tended to Chuck while two of the police cars sped off. I assumed they were likely trying to track down the driver of the car. Was it a hit-and-run? Had the driver been drunk and not seen Chuck standing in the middle of the road? Even if the driver was drunk, they must have realized they’d hit something—or in this case someone. I couldn’t imagine fleeing the scene.
“What’s all the commotion?” A man’s voice made me startle.
I turned to see Ronald behind me. He wore his camo chef’s coat and puffed on a cigarette.
I coughed and waved smoke from my face.
He realized that the smoke was bothering me and moved his head so that the smoke wafted the other direction.
“There’s been a hit-and-run. Weren’t you over there when it happened?” I pointed across the street where I had seen someone smoking when Doug and I had first come outside.
“Nope. I’ve been at Rumors. Heard the sirens and came up to see what was going on.”
I could have sworn that Ronald had been across the street.
He buttoned the top button on his chef’s coat. “Looks like Chuck got mowed down.”
“What?” I hadn’t mentioned Chuck’s name. How did Ronald know that Chuck had been hit?
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