“That’s the plan.” I chuckled. “Actually, something did happen after we parted ways last night. Well, at least I think something may have happened, it could be in my head.” I proceeded to tell him about being followed and chasing the mysterious stalker in black.
“Will, I don’t think that’s in your head. I had a similar experience this morning. I could have sworn that someone was following me. You know when you get that feeling that you’re being watched?”
I nodded.
“I had that when I was at the bank. I kept turning around. I never saw anyone in the bank, but when I left, there was a guy standing across the street at the vacuum store. He was smoking a cigarette and staring at the bank. When I crossed the street to confront him, he took off. I couldn’t catch him because he hopped on a bus in front of the library. I think our plan is working. We’re spooking whoever did this. I can feel it. We’re close.”
“I hope you’re right. I don’t want to put Helen or Juliet in any danger.”
Doug’s face went white. “Will, I don’t either. If you want to stop, I understand. No hard feelings, understood.”
“No. I don’t want to stop, but I don’t want to do anything stupid either. I made sure that no one followed me home last night. I drove all the way out to the other side of town and looped back around just in case.”
“Did you see any cars? Headlights behind you?”
“Nothing. I wasn’t followed home. I’m sure of that.”
“Could you identify whoever followed you up to your van? Do you have a sense of height? Build?”
I tried to describe the person I had seen in black, but it had been dark, and we were on a hill. I thought it was a man, but it could have been a woman, and for all I knew they could have been taller than me. It was too hard to tell.
Doug jotted some notes in his journal. “This is good. Your description matches mine.”
“Do you think it could be the same person I saw smoking over there the night of the accident?”
“Possibly. It’s worth another look, don’t you think?”
A car drove by. Once it was out of the way we crossed the street to the streetlamp where I’d seen the smoker. Doug crouched down on his knees and scanned the sidewalk and bushes. “The team already swept this area, but let’s take one more look. If we could find a cigarette butt, there’s a chance they could pull prints or even DNA from it.”
We carefully scoured the area. I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. The sidewalk had a few pine needles, a broken pine cone, and dried leaves, but no sign of a cigarette butt. We expanded our perimeter to include the entire block. Doug was precise in his investigation, literally leaving no stone unturned. I found an old sock and a faded penny. Neither appeared to have any connection to our case, but Doug bagged them as a precaution. “You never know, Will. It’s worth a shot.”
I was about to give up when Doug whistled. “Jackpot!”
I went to see what he had found. He removed the butt of a cigarette from the edge of a storm drain with a pair of tweezers. “This could be it. This could be solid evidence.” He dropped the used cigarette into a plastic bag and zipped it shut. “I’ll take this to the lab in Medford and check in with the bank again. Do you want to come with me?”
As much as I wanted to join him, I didn’t want to leave all of the cleanup to Helen and Wendy. “I should probably get back to work.”
“Understood. I’ll let you know what we hear from the lab.”
I made it back to the bakeshop in time to help Wendy and Helen finish prepping the Cabaret desserts. Not long before closing I did a walk-through of the dining room, picking up any last plates and cups left at tables and letting the few customers who were lingering know that we would be locking the front door in about a half hour. A man who I didn’t recognize sat at the window booth in the corner of the bakery. His baseball hat was pulled so low on his brow that I couldn’t make out his face.
“Can I get you anything? Top off your coffee, perhaps?” I asked, pausing at the booth.
He didn’t look up from his empty coffee cup. “No.”
“Okay, just want to let you know that we’re closing in about twenty minutes.”
If he heard me, he made no notice of it. I returned to the kitchen. “Do you know that guy in the booth up front?” I asked Helen.
She wiped flour onto her apron and stood on her tiptoes. “No. I asked Wendy about him earlier. He’s been sitting there for at least an hour. He ordered a black coffee and a chocolate chip cookie—which he finished in the first five minutes. Wendy’s gone over a couple times to check on him and he hasn’t wanted a refill or anything. We were wondering if maybe he’s down on his luck and just needed a place to stay warm for a little while.”
“That’s probably it.” I didn’t want to alarm Helen, but a familiar churning feeling came over me. The guy was wearing a pair of expensive red-and-black Nike Air Jordans. After being followed last night, my nerves were running high. Could this be the guy I’d seen?
I didn’t want to make a big deal of it in front of Helen, so I kept an eye on the guy as we went about boxing up the Cabaret desserts and cleaning. He must have snuck out at some point because when I went to lock the front door he was already gone.
Will, stop blowing things out of proportion, I told myself as I picked up the guy’s coffee cup and plate. A one-dollar bill had been tucked into a folded paper napkin.
See. The guy left us a tip, and I was worried that he was casing the place.
I unfolded the napkin to take out the money and saw that he had written something on it with a black pen. Sweat beaded on my forehead as I read the note.
“Mind your own business. Stay out of it before someone else gets hurt.”
I thought I might be sick. What had I done?
The note was tangible proof that I wasn’t imagining things. And worse, it meant that whatever Doug and I had done, someone, most likely Chuck’s killer, had taken notice. They were threatening me and my family. I had to put an end to this now.
Once we had finished cleaning, I sent Wendy and Helen home early and went straight to the police station. Yet again, Doug’s secretary told me he was out and she wasn’t sure when he would return.
I went back to the bakeshop, found a notebook we used to sketch cake designs, and made as many notes about the mystery guy’s appearance as I could while they were still fresh in my head. Who was he? Was he an accomplice or was he the driver of the car? I didn’t recognize him from the Cabaret, Rumors, the Festival, or anywhere else in town, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. I didn’t know everyone in Ashland and certainly not in the surrounding Rogue Valley.
Why warn me?
What had I done, other than tag along with Doug to interview body shops and ask a few questions at the Cabaret? It didn’t make sense. If Chuck’s killer was a stranger, someone unknown around town, then how was I being targeted? There had to be a connection with one of the suspects Doug and I had been in contact with the past two days. The question was who? And why did they see me as a threat?
I thought through everyone on my potential list. First there was Chef Ronald. Could the guy in the baseball hat be a friend of his? Could he have hired him to scare me? To throw us off the scent? I wouldn’t put it past the surly chef. But, then again, why?
Next there was Pat, the owner of Rumors. I couldn’t see Pat pulling a stunt like this. He was a fellow small business owner after all. The same was true for Shelly and Stewart at the Cabaret. That left Jeri from the Festival. Would the membership director of the West Coast’s most revered repertory theater send some goon out to threaten me? Doubtful.
I ripped my page of notes from the notebook and tucked it into my pocket to share with Doug as soon as I could track him down. Then I loaded up the Cabaret desserts and double-checked that every door and window in the bakeshop was locked. I wasn’t about to take any chances knowing that Torte was under threat.
Chapter Thirteen
“That�
��s terrifying,” I said to the Professor. “No wonder my dad was upset.”
“Exactly. Imagine how I felt. I had involved Will in my feeble attempt at tracking a killer and put him and his family in harm’s way.” Deep lines etched in his brow as he spoke. “I made so many mistakes those days. Don’t try to console me.” He held up his hand to stop me as I tried to reassure him. “I know what you’re likely to say. That mistakes are how we learn. But in hindsight, I see how ridiculously selfish it was of me to include Will.”
“But you couldn’t have known what was going to happen,” I offered.
“Case in point, Juliet. Yet still.” Without another word, he read on.
I couldn’t stop looking over my shoulder on my way to the Cabaret. Every sound from birds chirping overhead to theatergoers laughing made me jump. I expected to see the guy in the baseball hat and Air Jordans every time I turned around. At the Cabaret I was even more jittery. I nearly dropped the entire box of devil’s food cakes and couldn’t steady my hand when demonstrating piping the whipping cream to a new crew of volunteers.
Get it together, Will.
Once I had the volunteers trained for dessert service, I decided to go down to Rumors and get a drink. Maybe a martini would help calm my nerves. The smoky bar was packed. A well-known jazz singer crooned from the stage. She wore a skin-tight sequined dress. Her crimped red curls reminded me of a lion’s mane. I found an empty seat at the bar and ordered a martini.
The ice-cold drink took the edge off. I drank it faster than usual and was taken aback when the bartender pointed to my empty glass and asked if I wanted another.
“No. I’m fine.”
“He’ll have another.” A voice sounded behind me. “On the house.” Pat yanked out an empty barstool. He struggled to climb up onto it.
“I’m glad to see you here, William. You are just the guy I’ve been looking for. I was hoping for a word.”
I didn’t know Pat well. He and I had bumped into each other at the occasional chamber meeting and around town at business events, but we were casual acquaintances at best. Hearing that he wanted to talk to me was a surprise. He was an Ashland legend. Rumors was the fourth business he had opened downtown in the past few years and I highly doubted it would be his last. He was short and stocky with a swath of white hair. He reminded me of a retired wrestler with his mammoth arm muscles and bowed legs. If you were on Pat’s good side, he treated you well, but I wouldn’t want to be on his bad side. I had heard stories about him starting vicious rumors, and sabotaging business owners who slighted him. Helen teased that the reason he named his nightclub Rumors was because he was the king of the rumor mill in Ashland.
The bartender handed Pat a double shot of whiskey and delivered me a fresh martini. I had to pace myself, otherwise I would have to call Doug and beg for a ride home.
“How are things, Pat?”
Pat took my question literally. He surveyed the lounge. “Nearly a packed house for the opener. I’d say we’re going to have a good night.”
“A packed house is always a good thing,” I concurred.
“Especially these days. I don’t know about the bakery business, but the bar business has been slow. Real slow.”
“Yeah? Rumors seems like the place to be.” Pat’s remark didn’t match up with the busy nightclub. I’d never seen Rumors on a weekend night without a line queuing down the block to get in. What made Rumors unique was the range of people it attracted, from college students to members of the acting company to music fans.
“It is. Don’t get me wrong, kid. You’ll learn as you’re in the business longer never to complain about a packed house. I’m happy about the size of tonight’s crowd but we have some serious cash to make up thanks to one actor who tried to bleed me dry.”
“Chuck?”
Pat tapped his empty shot glass on the walnut bar to signal the bartender. “Did you have problems with him too?”
“Problems?” I took a slow sip of my martini, hoping that my voice sounded casual and neutral.
“I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but Chuck deserves a special place in hell if you ask me.”
“What happened?”
“Did he run up a huge bill at the bakery?” Internally I cringed. I wanted to correct him. Helen and I had intentionally used the word “bakeshop” in all of our signage, marketing materials, and menus to differentiate ourselves. Not that we had anything against bakeries. It was more about perception. Bakeries were places to go to pick up a birthday cake or a box of donuts to share with the office. Helen and I wanted Torte to be a gathering place. A space where people lingered. Where neighbors came to talk and where strangers became friends.
On opening day, I had gotten into it with Richard Lord, who made fun of us. “Bakeshop, huh, Will? Sounds like pretentious Californian to me.”
For some reason unbeknownst to me, I tried to reason with Richard, explaining that the term “bakeshop” was more encompassing. That we intended to serve simple soups and lunches in addition to our pastries. He had laughed in my face.
“No. To be honest, he never frequented the bakeshop much,” I said to Pat, not bothering to correct him. “Helen and I probably would have welcomed having a local celebrity hanging around, but I didn’t see much of Chuck.”
Pat’s puffy cheeks burned with color. I wasn’t sure if it was from the whiskey or because he couldn’t control his emotions. “Count yourself lucky. I made a huge mistake. Huge.” He knocked back another shot. “I thought, like you, that having someone with Chuck’s status at Rumors would be like free advertising. In fact, we were getting ready to shoot a commercial here at the bar with Chuck.”
“Really?”
“That was the plan, but Chuck bailed on me. What happened to a man’s handshake being his word? Have we lost those days, William? Take that as a lesson for your bakery. I gave Chuck my word and a hefty down payment for his endorsement of the jazz club. I shook the man’s hand and he looked me in the eye. Then do you know what he did?”
From the bitter look in Pat’s eyes and the way his thick fingers clutched the shot glass, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that he and Chuck had fallen out.
“He took the money and ran.”
“He ran?” I asked.
“Not physically speaking.” Pat turned the glass over and slammed it upside down on the bar. “I made a deal with Chuck, like a gentleman and a business owner, and he screwed me in return.”
I stirred my drink with the olive resting on the edge of a plastic toothpick. “I don’t understand. What was your deal with Chuck?”
“It was twofold. I hired him to endorse Rumors. He was supposed to bring other members of the Festival here for dinner and drinks. He promised that he would bring in what he called his ‘high-roller friends.’ Tourists with dollars to spend from L.A., San Francisco, and Seattle. He brought them in all right. He brought them in and ran up huge bar tabs. I’m talking thousands of dollars in drinks, dinners, cover charges. For what? For nothing. None of his high rollers ever came back and none of them ever paid a single dime for anything. That wasn’t the deal.
“I told Chuck I would comp him for a drink or dinner here or there, but he took advantage of me. Told my waiters and bartenders to put everything—the entire bill—every time on his tab. My staff didn’t know better. I had told them that Chuck and I had an endorsement deal and to be sure that whenever he brought in friends that they got our best service.” He pounded his fist on the bar. “Oh they got our best service all right. They got steak dinners, expensive bottles of French wine, and front-row seats to every show … for nothing. Nothing. Not a penny.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond. It turned out that I didn’t need to formulate my thoughts. Pat was on a roll.
“That’s not even the worst of it,” he continued. “I gave Chuck a hefty check, a deposit for the commercial we were about to start shooting. He agreed to star in the commercial and promote it. The spot was going to air from Roseburg to Redding. I hired an a
dvertising agency from Medford to shoot it. I had some big-name musicians coming up to do background vocals. The works. It was going to be big, and then Chuck bailed. I paid him the deposit, and the balance would be due upon completion. Do you know what he did, William?”
I shook my head.
“He cashed the check, spent the money, and refused to be in the commercial.”
“Why?” I was surprised at how forthcoming Pat was, and I was also making mental notes of everything he was telling me. Pat was clearly furious with Chuck. The more he told me, the more I wondered if he could be involved in Chuck’s gruesome murder.
“Who knows? The man was an egotistical, conniving liar. He said that he didn’t feel like it was ethical for him to endorse a nightclub. Ethical? Ha!” Pat threw his hands up in disgust. “He had no issue with ethics when it came to spending my money, but suddenly he got a conscience and decided he wouldn’t endorse a bar. No. He was playing me the whole time. He took advantage of the fact that I’m old school. A man’s handshake used to be all you needed in this world. I didn’t want to pay a lawyer in a suit to give me a bunch of carbon copies of legal contracts. I didn’t think we needed it. I laid out the deal for Chuck, shook his hand, and paid him the deposit. That should be enough, don’t you think?”
I didn’t share Pat’s perspective. While I agreed that it was important to be true to your word, I understood that in business, having things in writing was key.
“I tried to get my money back when Chuck refused to start shooting, but he said it was the cost of ‘considering’ the deal. He considered it and decided it was a no.” Pat flipped the shot glass over and over again. “Can you imagine the nerve? The guy used Rumors as his personal hot spot, brought his friends in to drink for free, cashed a large deposit for work he was never going to do, and then he had the nerve to tell me to back off?”
“How so?”
“He told me if I didn’t stop pestering—that’s the word he used—pestering him for my money he was going to go to the police and get a restraining order. Can you believe that?”
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