Nothing Bundt Trouble

by Ellie Alexander

  I nodded.

  “More of the same would be good. People trust you, Will. You have an earnest face.”

  I choked on a fry. “I don’t know about that.”

  “It’s true. You don’t buy into the trend of needing to be cool. You’re comfortable in your own skin, which makes you naturally cool.”

  “Thanks.” I leaned back in my chair and gave him my best attempt at a James Dean snarl.

  “I’m serious, Will. You are a rare breed. A true Renaissance man.”

  “Ha! I could say the same for you.”

  Doug pretended to bow. “A compliment I would gladly accept, but you have a gift, my friend. Your warm nature brings out the best in even the most jaded. Take Richard over there, for example.” He pointed to a long bar where Richard Lord sat knocking back shots of tequila.

  “What about Richard? I can’t stand the guy.” Richard Lord had recently acquired an old hotel that sat catty-corner to the bakery. He was new to Ashland and not a good fit. His idea of Shakespeare was trying to capitalize on the kitsch. He’d been walking around the plaza wearing a handmade signboard with the Bard’s bust and the tagline: IF SHAKESPEARE MADE BREAKFAST, HE’D COOK A HAMLET. COME TO THE MERRY WINDSOR FOR THE BEST HAMLETS IN TOWN.

  So far, the only takers had been desperate tourists who didn’t want to wait in line at Torte for one of our handmade omelets. I had it on good authority that Richard was using microwaved omelets at the Merry Windsor. Helen was convinced the only reason he was in the plaza trying to drum up breakfast business was because of us. Richard had tried hitting on Helen when we first moved to Ashland. I hadn’t needed to step in to defend my wife’s honor. She had made it abundantly clear that she wasn’t interested in his advances. Richard hadn’t taken the rejection lightly. He stopped by the bakeshop at least once a day and lingered at the counter. It made me uncomfortable, but Helen insisted that we ignore him. “The only way to deal with a bully like Richard, is to completely ignore him, William. If we get upset, we’re giving him exactly what he wants. Let him come sit at the counter and spend his money at Torte. He’ll get tired of not getting the reaction he’s hoping for after a while and forget about us, but in the meantime, I’ll gladly take his cash.”

  I hoped that Helen was right. Richard hadn’t shown any signs of relenting.

  Doug finished his burger and washed it down with his beer. “I understand that you’re not a fan, but you’ve handled Richard beautifully. I’ve watched how he changes around you. He doesn’t try to puff out his chest and pretend like he’s the big man around Ashland with you.”

  “That’s thanks to Helen, not me. If I had it my way, I’d like to deck the guy.”

  “I’ve had a few instances where the thought crossed my mind as well. My point is that you take the moral high ground. Not because you have to. Because that’s who you are. People open up to you because of that fact.”

  I stared at Richard. He was my age, but his hairline had begun to recede prematurely and he had developed a bit of a beer gut. “You want me to ask about Chuck spending cash around town and continue to keep an ear open when I’m at the Cabaret. Anything else?”

  Doug set his napkin on his empty plate. “Is there a chance you can sneak away from the bakeshop for a couple hours tomorrow? I mean, as long as you don’t think it will raise any red flags with Helen. I don’t want to get you in trouble with Helen.”

  “I can take off for a couple hours. Why?”

  “I’d like to walk-through the crime scene one more time while things are still relatively fresh. And, I’d like to do it in broad daylight. In fact, I think I’ll invite one of the Daily Tidings’ reporters too.”

  “What are you hoping to accomplish with the press?”

  “I want to keep whoever did this spooked. I think there’s a solid chance that our killer is connected to the Cabaret, and I want the actors, company members, volunteers, staff—everyone involved with the show—to see our presence. I want Chuck’s killer to be running scared. To know that I’m not giving up on this case. I want them to see that we’re actively tracing every clue we can. If we can keep them worried, I think we’ll have a better shot at flushing them out.”

  “That makes sense.” I took a final sip of my beer. It had gone flat and warm.

  “It could backfire, but it’s worth a shot, right?” Doug paid the bill. “Honestly, Will, it’s the only shot I have at the moment, so cross your fingers that it works.”

  I clapped him on the back on my way out the door. “I have confidence in you. We’re going to close this case and bring Chuck’s killer to justice.”

  As I walked to my van, I wished that I felt as confident as I had tried to sound for my friend. The truth was I was more confused than ever.

  I had parked the van at the top of Hargadine. The street was dark and quiet. A cat ran past me as I trekked up the steep hill. It darted down the alley behind the Mark Antony and out of sight.

  My mind ran through different scenarios related to Chuck’s murder. I was so lost in my thoughts that at first, I didn’t notice the sound of footsteps behind me. The footsteps got faster and closer.

  I stopped and turned around, expecting to see Doug running up the hill to catch up with me.

  When I turned, I spotted someone dressed in black from head to toe. They blended in with the pitch-black sky. “Who’s there?”

  I reached into my coat pocket, wishing I had some sort of weapon.

  The person froze.

  “What do you want?” I yelled as loud as I could. The street might be quiet, but I knew there were people around at Rumors, the Mark Antony, and the Cabaret.

  My stalker stood as still as a statue.

  “What do you want?” I repeated. I looked around me for anything I could use as a weapon. The only thing I spotted was a crushed Coke can nearby.

  The person in black began walking backward away from me.

  I should have run up the hill to the van and headed home to Helen and Juliet, but something compelled me forward. My legs moved like they were being controlled by a puppet master. “Stop! Who are you?”

  The mystery person sprinted away before I could catch up. I ran down Second Street and turned onto Main. By the time I rounded the corner, they were gone. Vanished. Had they ducked into the hotel or disappeared down an alley?

  I paused to catch my breath and collect my wits. Was I imagining things? Maybe working the case with Doug was bad for my imagination. I had always had a tendency to create stories in my head. Was I doing that now? Maybe I hadn’t been followed. It could have been a teenager playing around, or someone on their way home like me. Maybe I had spooked them.

  Go home, Will, I told myself, retracing my steps up Second Street. I paused every twenty or thirty feet to make sure I wasn’t being followed. Whoever had been behind me was gone.

  There were two possibilities. The first was that I was blowing things out of proportion. And the second was that I could be in danger.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Which was it?” I asked the Professor. “Was my dad imagining things or was he in danger?”

  The Professor rested his chin in his hands. “The latter, I’m afraid.”

  “Really?”

  “Things escalated from there. We continued to work the case together, but that night he was followed was just the beginning. There were threatening notes, phone calls, mysterious cars driving by your house at night. It was terrible, Juliet.” He sounded distraught.

  I tried to console him. “It’s not like that was your fault.”

  “Oh, but it was. I never should have involved your father, and I felt awful that I was responsible for putting you and your mother at risk.”

  “We weren’t really at risk, were we?” I reached for my water glass. It was empty.

  “You were. I’ll explain. Go ahead and get another drink.”

  I stood and stretched. My back was stiff from sitting in the booth for over two hours. “Can I get you anything while I’m up?”

/>   He shook his head. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

  I took the opportunity to do a quick check-in with my staff. Andy was on break. Sequoia and Rosa were behind the coffee counter. “Everything good?”

  Rosa’s dimples pinched as she smiled. “Yes, the mini cakes have been a hit. We’ve nearly sold out. Bethany is making another batch.”

  “Excellent.” The glass pastry case shined under the overhead light. Two single mini cakes remained on the top shelf. Bethany had suggested the idea of small, individual-sized cakes that were designed and decorated to resemble miniature wedding cakes. The trend of beautiful, dainty cakes had caught on. They made a sweet gift or simply a lovely afternoon treat.

  Sequoia frothed oat milk. “We’re running low on coconut and almond milk, FYI.”

  “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll make sure they deliver both tomorrow.” We had also expanded our milk offerings. From coconut to almond and oat to soy, we tried to have a variety of alternative nondairy options for all of our customers. My personal favorite was the chocolate milk we used in our mochas. It was made by a local dairy farmer with rich, delectable chocolate flavors that were a perfect accompaniment to our house-made chocolate sauce.

  I went downstairs to see how the kitchen staff were faring. Steph, per usual, had earphones in and her head down as she piped tiny pink hearts onto miniature vanilla strawberry cakes. Bethany and Marty were staging bread photos next to the wood-fired oven, and Sterling was cleaning up at the sink.

  “How’s everything down here?”

  He used a damp cloth to wipe a cast-iron skillet. “Good. How about you? You and the Professor have been”—he searched for the right word—“in deep thought for a while. Is everything okay?” One of the things I appreciated most about Sterling was his perceptiveness. I knew that he wasn’t prying. He was genuinely concerned that something was wrong.

  “It’s a long story. I’ll fill you in later. By the way, that cauliflower crust is incredible. I hope you opted to make more.”

  “We did.” Sterling grinned. “And we’re already sold out.”

  “Any sign of Mom?” I glanced toward the small seating area adjacent to the kitchen.

  “No, but she said not to expect her for a few hours. Apparently, she and her friend are going to the spa. There was mention of pedicures. That’s when I stopped listening.” Sterling pointed to the tattoo on his forearm. “Now if they had said they were going to the tattoo shop, I might have paid more attention.”

  “I’d love to see Mom with a tattoo. Can you imagine?” I scrunched my forehead trying to picture her with one.

  “Helen would rock a tattoo, preferably some sort of cake or cupcake. It could be our next team-building exercise. Group tattoos.”

  I winced at the thought of needles piercing my skin. “Nah, I say let’s stick to staff feasts or maybe even a group hike, instead of sticking ourselves, cool?”

  Sterling plunged a soup pot into soapy water. “Suit yourself, Jules. We could be onto something with Torte tattoos.”

  “I’ll think on it. You’re sure you’re okay down here?” I don’t know why I was worried. My staff was extremely competent. Everyone we hired was a self-starter. Most of whom needed little to no direction. I guess more than anything I felt guilty for not working.

  “We’re fine. Go do what you need to do.”

  “Thanks. Come get me if you need anything, though.”

  “We won’t, but okay.”

  I tried to fake disgust, but ended up laughing. “Fine. I’m going.” I returned upstairs with a plate of Bethany’s bittersweet chocolate brownies.

  The Professor was gone. Had memories of the past overwhelmed him? I peered out the front windows and spotted him standing near the Lithia Fountains speaking with a woman I didn’t recognize. While I waited for him to return, I nibbled on a brownie. Before we had convinced Bethany to come work with us, she had specialized in brownies, running a pop-up brownie delivery service from her home kitchen. The bittersweet chocolate and touch of sea salt in Bethany’s chewy brownies made me want to polish off the entire plate.

  When the Professor returned, his jaw was clenched tight and his brow was pinched. “Many apologies. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “No problem.” I passed the plate to him. “Brownie?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” He picked one up. “In a strange twist of fate, you’ll never guess who I was speaking with.”

  “Who?”

  “Jeri Heyward. Former OSF membership director.”

  “I don’t think I know her.”

  “You probably wouldn’t. She moved to Talent about a decade ago and has been working for the Camelot Theater. When Lance was hired as artistic director, he brought in a number of new staff members, and Jeri made her exit. It was time. She’d been with the company for nearly twenty years. That tends to happen with changes at the top level.”

  “Right. What’s she doing here?”

  The Professor tore off a corner of the brownie. “An excellent question. I must say that the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck are standing at attention at this very moment. Don’t you find it odd that we would be rehashing the past and Jeri would appear?”

  “How could she know that we were talking about Chuck’s case?”

  “How could she, indeed?” He tasted the brownie. “Did you mention anything about this to Lance?”

  “Yeah, I did. I mean, nothing specific.”

  “Hmm.” The Professor rubbed his temples. “Interesting.”

  “You think Lance told Jeri?”

  “It’s quite a coincidence. I have no idea, but in my line of work things rarely line up with such synchronicity. It’s certainly something to watch, don’t you agree?”

  “For sure.” I couldn’t argue with the Professor’s logic, but I also couldn’t understand why Lance would involve Jeri. I’d never heard him mention her.

  “Shall we continue?” The Professor brushed flaked sea salt from his hands before opening the journal.

  “Please.”

  The next morning, Helen gave me her signature look of disapproval over the breakfast table.

  “What’s going on with you William Capshaw?” She frowned as she stabbed her scrambled eggs. “You’re not acting like yourself.”

  “I’m fine.” I buttered a piece of toast.

  “You are not.” She lowered her voice and shielded her face with her hand for Juliet’s sake. “It’s because of Chuck’s death, isn’t it? I know you, Will. I know that you’re replaying that night over and over in your head. I’m worried about you.”

  “It’s not a pleasant memory, but I’ll be fine.” I smiled at Juliet, who was drawing in a Strawberry Shortcake coloring book.

  “I disagree.” She passed me a jar of homemade peach jam. “I’m worried about Doug too. Could you offer to help him with the case? I know you can’t do much as an average citizen, but as his best friend maybe you could be a sounding board. It would do you both good.”

  I was glad that I hadn’t taken a bite of toast yet. I probably would have choked on it with Helen’s suggestion. “That’s a good idea.” I felt terrible lying to her.

  “Good. Why don’t you stop by the police station after the lunch rush?”

  “I will, I promise.”

  We finished our breakfast. I left to open the bakeshop. Did Helen know I was already working with Doug? It was weird that she had broached the subject. I didn’t have much time to dwell on what she might or might not suspect because we had a large bread order for a new wholesale client. The morning breezed by while I kneaded loaf after loaf of sourdough and whole wheat. Helen concentrated on our standard offerings and Wendy worked the counter. The novelty of the espresso machine drew in a steady line of customers.

  I relieved Wendy late morning, taking a turn pulling shots and foaming milk. Customers loved watching the process of creating a layered latte and foamy cappuccino. By the time the lunch crowd had dispersed, I was ready for a break, so I made a latte to go and
headed over to police headquarters.

  The plaza office was conveniently located right across the street from Torte. The secretary told me that Doug was up at the Cabaret. It was a nice afternoon for a walk. Main Street was humming with activity. I waved to friends as I strolled up the sidewalk, taking in the sun. When Helen and I had left California for Oregon, we’d been nervous about the state’s famed rain, but fortunately Ashland was blessed with long stretches of sun no matter the season.

  Spring in Ashland was arguably the most gorgeous season. Cherry buds dotted the trees as I walked along Main Street past Giuseppi’s New York Pizza and Rosie’s Sweet Shop, two popular hangouts for the teenage crowds. Rosie’s classic soda fountain and its made-from-scratch ice cream made it Juliet’s favorite spot on summer nights. The three of us would share a banana split, complete with a cherry on top.

  A group of high-schoolers zoomed past me on BMX bikes. They were headed for the video store. I watched as they propped their bikes against the side of the building. Helen had recently read an article at the pediatrician’s office recommending mandatory bike helmets for anyone under the age of eighteen. It sounded like a solid plan to me. We insisted that Juliet wore her pink helmet whenever she rode her bike.

  I turned at the Mark Antony with its deco façade. A wave of anxiety made my cheeks flush. Had I been imagining things last night? What were the odds that someone had actually tried to follow me?

  I trekked onward and found Doug at the corner of Second and Hargadine. He was taking notes and reexamining the scene.

  “Need a hit of caffeine?” I asked, handing him the latte.

  “Will, you made it.” He took the paper cup. “Thank you, my friend. I can use every extra edge for this case.”

  “Any new developments since last night?” I wondered if I should tell him about being followed.

  “I spoke with the bank this morning. They should have a printout of Chuck’s statements for us in the next few hours. You? Any gossip at the bakeshop?”

  “Only about our fancy new espresso machine.” I nodded to his latte. “It’s the talk of the town.”

  “Understandably.” Doug took a drink. “This beats the stale Folgers at the station any day. You’re going to have a line of latte addicts within the week.”