I kept my promise to Doug and arrived an hour early to deliver desserts to the Cabaret. The mood was improved from opening night in terms of the frantic rush to get the theater ready, but it was solemn.
Shelly was delivering a speech to the cast when I walked inside. She wore another cape. This time, black with silver trimming. “I know everyone is shaken about what happened to Chuck, but we’re professionals and as they say in the biz, ‘The show must go on.’ I want you to do another walk-through of the choreography before the doors open for dinner service.”
I felt sorry for Chuck’s understudy—he looked like a deer in headlights as he fumbled his way through the first dance routine.
“William, glad you are here. Would you mind heading downstairs to Rumors and checking on Chef Ronald?” Stewart asked. He looked the part of a theater owner in his black slacks and matching black turtleneck with the Cabaret logo. A pair of wire-rim glasses hung from the tip of his nose.
“Let me get these into the kitchen first.” I nodded to the box of pastries.
He scribbled something on his clipboard. “Do what you need to do. I could use another set of eyes on Ronald. He’s trying to go off script with the menu again.”
I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do about that. Nor was I sure why suddenly everyone in town wanted my “eyes” on the lookout. Although, checking on Ronald would give me another chance to see if I could learn anything about his whereabouts last night, so I dropped off the dessert boxes and headed down the steep kitchen stairwell to Rumors.
The nightclub had an underground vibe that wasn’t merely due to its location. Dark wood paneling lined every wall. There were red vinyl booths and black leather chairs arranged around barstools, each offering a customer an unobstructed view of the stage. The smell of stale cigarettes hung heavy in the cavernous space. It made me appreciate our decision to make Torte a non-smoking bakeshop.
A jazz trio warmed up on the small stage while a handful of people listened at the bar. The light fixtures throughout the basement bar had been crafted from recycled musical instruments. Small advertising tents sat at each table, proclaiming that Mel Brown had signed on as the house band. I had heard mention that he was moving to Ashland for a six-month gig. That had to be a big coup for Pat.
Rumors had a blend of Ashland’s counterculture, with a smattering of hippies, plenty of actors who frequented the nightclub, and college students who would line up on the street for Flash Dance Night. The event kicked off at midnight on Sundays, offering one-dollar drinks and a chance to party to disco music with the lead choreographer at the Festival. Helen had jokingly threatened to get a babysitter and drag me to the disco. Fortunately, she agreed that Mel Brown was more our speed.
The popular underground bar was known for its late-night scene and for bringing big-name musicians to town. Ashland wasn’t exactly on the beaten path for headliners, but Pat, the owner of Rumors, had come up with a masterful plan. He invited jazz greats like Mel Brown, Anthony Davis, and Henry Threadgill to stop in Ashland on their way north to Portland and Seattle or south to San Francisco. Ashland was a perfect halfway point, and the musicians could pull in some good cash for a mid-week show.
I asked the bartender where the kitchen was. He pointed behind him.
It turned out that I didn’t need to ask for directions because as the trio ended their set, the sound of angry voices filled the bar. Pat and Ronald were nose to nose in the kitchen.
“Enough. I’ve told you a dozen times I don’t have space for you down here.” Pat puffed out his chest to make himself appear bigger. His head was level with Ronald’s shoulders.
Ronald mimicked his body movement. “You have tons of space, man. You just don’t want to give it up because you know my food is better than this bar crap.”
Pat’s face ballooned. “Look, I’m doing Stewart a favor. I don’t owe you a thing. You can try to lie and cover all you want, but I know that you and Chuck had something shady going on. I might not have proof but I don’t trust you for one second.”
I cleared my throat. The men stepped away from each other.
“Sorry to interrupt. Stewart asked me to come offer my services. He thought you might need another set of hands.”
The galley kitchen wasn’t more than fifteen to twenty feet long with stainless steel counters and a cement floor. From the looks of the well-used fryers and massive freezer, I had a feeling everything on Rumors’ menu was processed and deep-fried. Not exactly in the spirit of what Helen and I were going for at Torte.
“There’s no room for any more help.” Ronald tossed a dish towel next to the sink.
Pat got called away to help the bartender with a broken tap handle.
I was glad to have a moment alone with Ronald. What had Pat meant that he was sure Ronald and Chuck were scheming together?
“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?” I asked. “Pastry is my muse, but you can put me to work chopping, shredding, whatever you need.”
“I don’t need your help.” Ronald’s tone was icy.
Since he wasn’t going to take me up on my offer, I decided I might as well see if I could get any info out of him. “I overheard Pat say something about you and Chuck working together? I was under the impression that you two weren’t exactly friends.”
“We weren’t. Like I told you, I’m not sorry he’s dead.” Ronald removed boxes of frozen fries from the cooler.
“What did Pat mean then?”
He banged the box on the counter. It was as hard as Rumors’ brick exterior. “Why you asking me?”
How should I proceed? I was in uncharted territory. Doug had asked me to be discreet, and yet I knew that beating around the bush with someone like Ronald wasn’t going to get me anywhere. I took a risk. “It sounds like the police are treating Chuck’s death as intentional. They’re going to be asking a lot of questions, and I have to warn you that your attitude about the hit-and-run isn’t going to look good.”
Ronald’s demeanor shifted. His left eye twitched and his leg starting shaking so violently it made the floor feel as if we were experiencing a minor earthquake. “What? What are you saying?”
“I’m trying to give you fair warning that you could be on the top of their list right now.”
My tactic was working. He pushed the frozen fry box aside and moved closer to me. “You think so?”
“Well, you’re hardly being discreet about how much you disliked him, and you were on the scene last night so, yes, I think there’s a good chance that you’ll be getting a visit from a detective soon.”
“Crap.” Ronald began pacing. “What do you think they’re going to ask me?”
“I don’t know. That’s not my domain.”
“You’re friends with that new guy, what’s his name?”
“Doug.”
“Right. Doug. Can you talk to him? Put in a good word for me?”
“I’m not sure I feel comfortable doing that. To be honest, your reaction to Chuck’s death is disturbing.”
Ronald’s face slacked. “No, no, man, you’ve got it all wrong.” He stopped pacing for a minute. “Wait, you think I killed him?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, but I can see it on your face. That’s why you’re telling me the police are coming. They think I did it, don’t they?”
His tone had changed. He almost sounded manic. Was that because he really was the killer?
Maybe I should have thought my approach through a bit more.
“No, it wasn’t me. I didn’t like the guy, that’s the truth, but I didn’t kill him. If you want to know who had motive to run Chuck down, then you’re talking to the wrong guy.” He patted his camo chef’s coat frantically as if searching for something.
“What do you mean?” I studied his face.
Ronald nodded toward the bar. “You should talk to Pat. Pat was fuming mad at Chuck. I overheard them having a blowup. Pat actually said something like, ‘I’m going to kill you for this.’” He final
ly found what he was looking for, a pack of cigarettes. He ripped it open and stuffed a cigarette in his mouth without lighting it.
“For what?”
Ronald shrugged. “I don’t know. I think it had something to do with an unpaid bar bill. Chuck liked to bring all of his actor friends to Rumors. They would drink like crazy and order plate after plate of food. He never paid. He always said to put it on his tab. Claimed that he and Pat had some sort of deal worked out. No one questioned him.”
This was new information.
“Last week Pat came down on him hard. Told him that he owed every penny he had spent and charged to the bar. Chuck freaked out.”
I nodded in response, hoping that if I didn’t say anything Ronald would say more.
“You have to talk to your friend, okay? Tell him this. Tell him what I said. If anyone is a suspect around here, it’s Pat. Not me.” He yanked the unlit cigarette from his mouth and stared at it with longing. “I need a smoke break. See you later.”
He took off before I could pepper him with more questions. Was he telling the truth? It was hard to say. His attitude about Chuck’s death had certainly changed once I had revealed that the police were investigating. Had he told me about Chuck and Pat’s fight just to shift suspicion away from him, or was there any truth to his story? If Chuck had run up an enormous tab, could that give Pat a motive for murder? I wasn’t sure, but at least I had something to report to Doug.
Chapter Eleven
“Did you suspect Pat?” I asked the Professor.
Before he could answer, Andy stopped by our booth with a fresh pot of coffee. “Can I top you off, boss?”
I declined. As did the Professor. Andy cleared our plates and moved on to the next table. We made it our mission to keep our customer’s coffee cups filled to the brim. While there were tubs located near the espresso bar for guests to bus their own dishes, we also tried to do consistent sweeps through the dining rooms to pick up any used plates and cups and to wipe down tables. During the height of the morning and lunch rushes it was nearly impossible, but whenever there was a lull we made sure the dining room sparkled. I was glad that my staff took the initiative and I didn’t need to remind them to make sure the bakeshop was clean and welcoming.
After Andy was out of earshot, the Professor nodded. “I suspected everyone at one point. Pat certainly had motive, but Jeri, Shelly, Stewart, and Ronald did as well. Everyone connected to the Cabaret had a motive to kill Chuck. It was most vexing.” He massaged his ginger and gray beard for a moment. “The burden of proof was my responsibility. My boss reminded me of that fact almost daily, when I would walk into his office with the latest theory that Will and I had concocted. ‘Doug, you must find proof,’ he would say. ‘Theories are nothing more than speculation. Follow the evidence.’ That was the problem. There was no evidence.” He turned to the next page in the journal. “You’ll see our dilemma.”
I didn’t have a chance to speak to Pat before the show. It was another busy night in the Cabaret’s kitchen, prepping dessert plates and ensuring that patrons had fresh cups of coffee and tea. The show lost some of its luster without Chuck in the lead. He might have amassed a list of enemies, but the man was a talented actor.
Shelly and Stewart took the stage before opening curtain and asked the audience to join them in a moment of silence in memory of Chuck. It was a nice gesture, but it felt forced. Shelly pretended to dab tears from her eyes. I doubted that her tears were real. After the moment of silence she practically danced off stage and proceeded to greet one of the front-row tables with kisses and hugs. It was strange behavior for an artistic director who had lost the star of her show.
Stewart wasn’t much different. He worked the room, stopping to mingle at tables and talk up the renovations. Maybe that was show biz. If it was, I was glad that I had opted for pastry.
Dessert service went smoother than it had the night before. That was a plus in an otherwise strange evening. I trained a new crew of volunteers, who picked up our signature techniques with ease. By the time the dishes had been cleared after intermission, I was beat. All I wanted was to be home with Helen and Juliet. However I had promised Doug that I would meet him for a beer to go over what I had learned, and Juliet had gone to bed hours ago. Hopefully Doug had uncovered enough evidence to make an arrest and we could put Chuck’s murder behind us and get back to our normal routine.
We had agreed to meet at the Mark Antony after the show—I needed a break from the Cabaret. As soon as the last plate had been cleared, I snuck out the rear exit. An ice-cold beer and one of the Mark Antony’s world-famous cheeseburgers sounded like the antidote to my troubles. When I arrived at the vintage hotel, Doug had beaten me there. He was sitting near the fireplace reviewing his notes.
“Will, you made it.” He looked up as I approached the table. “I took the liberty of ordering you a beer and a burger.”
“You are a true friend.”
“It’s the least I can offer.” He folded the Moleskine notebook shut as a waiter delivered our beers. “To discerning the truth.”
We raised our glasses.
“Did your evening at the Cabaret unveil anything?” Doug asked.
I drank the light beer. “As a matter of fact, it did.” I went on to tell him about my conversation with Ronald and what Ronald had told me about Pat.
“Indeed.” Doug made more notes as I relayed everything. “I didn’t have Pat on my interviewee list. I’m adding him now.”
“Is a bar tab a reasonable motive for murder?”
Doug tapped his pencil on the notepad. “Depends on the bar tab. Our burgers and beer set me back a whopping twelve bucks.” He laughed. “Jesting aside, it’s definitely something to consider. If Chuck had charged a sustainable amount of money to his tab without Pat’s approval, that could be cause, especially if the nightclub is in any sort of financial trouble. I’ll be sure to follow up on that as well. Good work.”
“Thanks.” Our burgers arrived with a platter of thick-cut fries to share. “What about you? Any new developments in the case?”
“Not enough to make an arrest as of yet, but I did get the toxicology report back. Chuck had a mixture of gin and cocaine in his system.”
The news didn’t surprise me, but I did wonder if Ronald shared Chuck’s recreational pastimes.
Doug continued. “I was able to piece together a few more low-hanging fruits that might lead us in the right direction.”
“Such as.” I bit into the juicy burger. It was pink in the center with a nice char on the outside. Topped with Oregon cheddar, lettuce, red onions, pickles, a thick tomato slice, and the Mark Antony secret sauce. Their cheeseburgers and their eggplant burgers were the reason locals return again and again to the dining room.
“I had a long chat with Jeri at the Festival. She tried to gloss over this, but the truth is that ticket sales are down with the opening of the Cabaret and she let it slip more than once that she thinks Chuck was the root cause. Hang on a sec.” He flipped through his notebook. “Here it is. Her exact words were that Chuck was ‘poaching patrons and single-handedly trying to ruin the Festival.’ What do you make of that?”
“Seems like she’s giving Chuck ample credit. Why would Chuck be responsible? Wouldn’t she be upset with Shelly and Stewart? They started the theater.” I took a long drink of my beer.
“My thoughts exactly. When I pressed her on that line of questioning, she claimed that Chuck had worked out an exaggerated scheme involving kickbacks from audience members. She believes that he was selling tickets to the Cabaret directly and keeping a portion of the proceeds for himself.”
“Interesting. I wonder if there’s a connection with whatever he was involved in at Rumors?”
“It’s going on my follow-up list for first thing tomorrow. If Chuck had pulled off something of this magnitude it would definitely give a number of people motive for murder. We’d be talking about much more than four-dollar burgers.” He pointed to our plates.
“That
could open a number of people up as suspects, couldn’t it?” I dipped a fry in Thousand Island dressing.
Doug nursed his beer. “I could spin out on that angle all night. What if Stewart or Shelly were in on it? Maybe Chuck threatened to come clean—developed a conscience—and one of them took him out. The same could be true for Pat, Jeri, even Ronald. It’s potentially far-fetched, but it’s not impossible.”
“How do you pursue that line of thinking?”
“We try to get them talking. I go to the bank. I see what I can dig up in Chuck’s financial records. I’m going to request recent statements for the Festival and the Cabaret too. Maybe there’s a paper trail of big deposits.”
“That would be lucky.”
He yawned. “Alas, it’s not very likely. If Chuck was astute enough to set up a scheme like this, he probably was smart enough to pay in cash to avoid any trace. That’s one thing you can help with. Chuck frequented the bakeshop, didn’t he? Did he pay in cash?”
I tried to remember. Our customers paid with cash, check, or net-30 terms for our wholesale customers. Helen and I had discussed the possibility of getting a credit card machine, but for the short-term our price points weren’t high enough to justify the percentage the credit card companies would take off the top. We needed every cent of our profit margin. “I’m not sure, but I can take a look at the books in the morning and see if I have any cleared checks under his name.”
“Maybe you could ask some of your fellow shop owners on the plaza? See if anyone remembers Chuck carrying around a wad of cash.”
“No problem. I can ask around. That should be easy enough. Anything else I can help with?”
“You’re at the Cabaret for the rest of the week, right?”
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