Jeri went inside, and I continued down Main Street in what now had become a full-fledged Oregon rain. Chuck’s killer remained elusive, but with each new thing I learned I felt like the pieces of a puzzle were starting to fall into place.
Chapter Fifteen
“Don’t get your hopes up, Juliet,” the Professor said, pausing briefly to take a few sips of water.
“What do you mean?”
“Like Will, your face reflects your every emotion. It’s a thing of beauty, but it betrays you now.”
“Or maybe you’re a good detective who has mastered the art of reading people over the years,” I bantered back.
“I appreciate the praise, but alas, I hate having to dash your hopes, as our story is shortly going to come to an end.” He picked up the journal and continued.
Doug wasn’t at the station when I stopped by. I knocked for a good five minutes before giving up and crossing the street to Torte. Once again I got the sense I was being watched. Was it time to start carrying a rolling pin with me wherever I went? The latest craze these days was pepper spray. What had once been a weapon reserved for the police had gone mainstream. I’d never considered carrying any kind of weapon, but maybe I needed a can for my own safety? I tried to laugh and make light of my current paranoia. If Helen had any idea what I’d been up to these last few days, she would probably come after me with a rolling pin. And rightfully so. I couldn’t blame her. I was acting like I was a teenager, not a mature adult with a wife, young daughter, and budding baking business.
The case was getting the best of me.
I kept my shoulders square as I moved toward the bakeshop. It was hardly as if someone would try to attack me in the middle of the plaza. The second that thought crossed my mind an image of Chuck’s body flying through the air replaced it.
If someone was following me, I didn’t want to stop at Torte. Odds were good that whoever had killed Chuck knew I owned the bakeshop, but on the off chance they didn’t, there was no point in drawing attention to the fact. I quickened my pace past Pucks Pub and continued down the sidewalk toward two dance clubs that had recently opened. The college crowd usually packed the clubs, so my best chance of shaking whoever was following me was to duck into one of the bars. The only problem was that both clubs were located on the third floor. And to access them I would have to pass through a dark alley and wait for a notoriously slow elevator.
Not a smart plan, William.
The sound of footsteps splattering through puddles made me want to break out into a full run, but I maintained as much control over my spiking adrenaline as possible.
Heavy breathing cut through the otherwise quiet sidewalk.
I wasn’t imagining this. Someone was really after me.
Shop Oregon, a store that catered to tourists with displays of local wine, beef jerky, and smoked salmon, was completely dark. As was the Iron Buffalo, with its sheepskin slippers and custom leatherwork. Nothing else down this way was open.
The footsteps thudded closer.
I passed the alleyway leading to the Bohemian and considered my choices. I could make a break for it. My long legs had led me to be a four-year varsity athlete on my high school cross-country team. I figured I could probably outrun whoever was following me. But then I would be at the mercy of the elevator.
I couldn’t chance it, so instead I switched directions and plowed across the street. I ran past the Lithia Fountains, the bus stop, and the pay phone. I thought about sprinting to the Mark Antony since Jeri and her group of board members would be there, but a chalkboard sign in front of the Merry Windsor hotel gave me another idea.
Richard Lord had been trying to take a cut of Ashland’s youthful night scene. He’d recently been advertising MTV dance parties in the Windsor’s ballroom on weekend nights. For once, I was actually thrilled to go into Richard’s hotel. Never had I imagined hearing those words in my head.
The Windsor was dark and gaudy with plush, almost velvety, emerald green carpet, brass railings and accents, and a slew of cheap Shakespearean artwork. Richard liked to boast that the Windsor was the closest thing to actually staying at the Bard’s residence in Stratford-upon-Avon. Helen and I joked that my namesake would rise from his grave just to pen a scene where Richard met an untimely death for the hideous comparison.
I walked past the reception desk where a college student thumbed through a Sports Illustrated magazine.
“The dance party is in the ballroom, right?” I pointed to the hallway lit by fake yellow candles.
“Yeah. It’s a five-dollar cover.” His voice was loud as he tried to speak over the sound of his Walkman. He didn’t bother removing his headphones.
I felt sorry for the kid. Not only was Richard Lord his boss, but all staff at the Merry Windsor were required to wear pantaloons and puffy Elizabethan shirts as their uniform. It was quite a contrast to see his modern magazine and Walkman while he wore an inexpensive and ill-fitting costume.
I checked behind me to see if whoever was following me had come inside. The lobby was empty, so I followed the long hallway, flanked by styrofoam busts of Shakespeare, to the ballroom.
There was a sign posted on the door about a cover charge, but no bouncer waiting to take payment. I wasn’t about to hand any money over to Richard Lord if I didn’t have to, so after one more check to make sure no one was watching me, I opened the doors.
Inside was a sea of neon. Neon T-shirts, leg warmers, jackets, and acid-washed jeans. A huge crystal disco ball spun overhead, creating a sea of flashing lights on the dance floor and walls. I felt fortunate for being on the other side of the MTV generation. Madonna blasted from two large speakers. The room was hot and humid from sweat and body heat. It didn’t smell particularly great either.
A temporary bar had been set up to my left where a long line—if I could call it that, it was more of a mosh pit—pressed forward to order expensive neon cocktails like Kelly green Midori sours and aqua-colored blue lagoons. It was no wonder the college and early twentysomething crowd gravitated toward these drinks, as they were basically sugar bombs. I wouldn’t put it past Richard to skimp on the alcohol content in the five-to eight-dollar cocktails.
I needed to blend in to avoid my stalker, so I squeezed past a group of young women jumping up and down to the beat. They wore their hair in matching side ponytails with colorful scrunchies. I had a flash of Juliet and her long pale blond hair. What would she be like in her twenties? She was already an old soul with a huge heart and a smile that lit up any room. It was hard to imagine that changing, but then again, we were a long way from the teen years. Maybe I would come to regret my words.
“Capshaw!”
I heard my name being called out.
“Capshaw, what are you doing here?”
I turned to find Richard Lord glaring at me. Was he auditioning for a role in a John Hughes movie? He wore a pair of white slacks that accentuated the slight paunch of beer belly. His pale pink Izod T-shirt had the collar popped and he had tied a mint green sweater around his neck. A bulky beeper was secured to his belt.
“Nice crowd, Richard.”
“It’s like this every night. Too bad you went into the bakery business. Can’t pull in the kind of cash I am with donuts and chocolate cake, can you?” Sweat stains spread from his armpits and beads dampened his forehead.
Had he been dancing? Richard didn’t strike me as the disco type.
“Nope.” I didn’t bother to elaborate on the fact that neither Helen nor I had any interest in catering to the dance party crowd.
“You should see how much I’m making on the cover alone. These kids like their cocktails,” he shouted over the music. “You’re missing out, Will. The good money is all in the bar tab.”
“Glad to hear things are going well.”
“Oh, things are going better than well.” He loosened his sweater. “I’m making more money than anyone in town between the hotel rooms, which have been at a hundred percent occupancy since I took over, our dining ro
om, special events, and now these dances. I’m going to be named number one in the Rogue Valley’s Thirty under Thirty edition that comes out next month.”
I didn’t know a ton about the hotel business, but if Richard was telling the truth about having an occupancy rate at one hundred percent, I would have to guess that meant he had been offering deep discounts. There simply wasn’t enough traffic through town when the theater was dark to support those numbers.
“You having a night off from the old ball and chain?” Richard nudged me. “There’s some cute coeds around, if you know what I mean.”
Describing Helen as a ball and chain was offensive at best. “No. I’m meeting a friend.”
“Who?” Richard’s beady eyes darted from side to side. “Someone from your bakery, or wait, it’s a bakeshop, right? Ha! You know you’re in Ashland, Oregon, not in some fancy San Francisco or New York village?”
I ignored his dig at Torte. It was nothing new. “No one you know.”
“Why are you meeting here, at a dance party? Does this have anything to do with Chuck’s death? I heard that you’ve been trying to play Hardy Boys with Doug. That’s a bad idea, Will. You should listen to me as a friend.”
A friend? Richard Lord? The old English proverb “With friends like these, who needs enemies?” rang through my head.
“You’re in too deep. You might think that no one knows what you are up to, but they do, Will Capshaw. They do. You’re putting Helen and Juliet in danger, you know.”
“What are you talking about?” Was Richard up to his usual tricks, or did he actually know something?
“This is a small town and news travels fast. You’re not a detective. Neither is Doug, technically speaking. You two have been traipsing around like you’re Don Johnson and Philip Michael Thomas. You’re asking for trouble.”
“Richard, if you know something about the case, you need to tell Doug.” I rubbed my ears as the loud music thumped in my head.
He brushed imaginary dust from his Izod. “I don’t know anything. I’m giving you a warning, as a friend. That’s all.”
“Why would you warn me? You obviously aren’t telling me something.”
He tried to flirt with a group of women who walked by us with pink martinis. “Hey ladies, how are you enjoying the party?”
They gave him a sideways glance, sniggered, and returned to the dance floor
“Too bad you’re tied down, Will. There’s so much action here.” He shot a lewd glance at a young coed and unclipped his beeper from his belt. No one else I knew in Ashland had a pager. Richard glanced at the electronic screen.
I wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easy. “What do you know about Chuck’s death?”
He looped the beeper back on his belt and narrowed his eyes. “You have it all, don’t you Capshaw. A gorgeous wife, pretty daughter, a bakery—sorry, bakeshop—that everyone around here seems to love. Why? I don’t know. I can do donuts, too. You watch, I will. But you’re going to toss it all aside to play detective? You may be book smart and like to walk around quoting Shakespeare, but you’re stupid, Capshaw. If I had Helen, I’d keep her under lock and key. I wouldn’t let her out of my sight and I certainly wouldn’t run all around town pretending to be a cop when there’s a killer on the loose.”
“I’m not pretending to be a cop, Richard. And are you threatening me?”
“You’re so jumpy, Will. I’m not threatening you, I’m simply telling you that if you think you and Doug are the only ones who get information, then you’re mistaken. I get information too. Maybe I don’t have a best friend to run around playing Miami Vice with, but I hear things. I know things.” Richard wet his fingers and slicked back his hair.
For the briefest moment I felt sorry for Richard. Was he envious of my friendship with Doug? Was his constant ribbing due the fact that he wished he had a family like I do? I saw him in a new light.
A bartender waved Richard over. “Duty calls. You should heed my advice, Will. I’d stop playing cop if I were you, and get back to baking.”
He made sure his collar was completely popped, then strutted to the bar.
What did Richard know? Had I read him wrong? Was he looking out for me?
I exited the sweaty ballroom. Enough time had passed that I felt confident I could head for the van and go home. The looming question was if Richard knew something vital to the case, how could Doug get it out of him?
Chapter Sixteen
“Professor, sorry to bug you, but you have a phone call.” Andy stood next to the booth, giving us an apologetic grin.
The Professor smoothed his shirt. I wondered if he was struggling, like me, to ground himself in present day.
“Excuse me a moment.” He cleared his throat and tilted his head in a slight bow.
I marked our place in the journal with a napkin and then stretched my feet in small circles, up, down, side to side. Movement felt odd. I’d been sitting for way too long. It was as if I had been listening to a movie while the Professor read. Each time we’d been interrupted, it became harder and harder to shake free of the past. I hadn’t felt this connected to my father, well, maybe ever. My memories of him blurred and morphed together. They weren’t to be trusted. He’d been gone for so long that the memories I did have of him were amalgams of stories I’d heard over the years.
Not today. Today was different. I felt like I was sitting across from my dad. He felt alive and whole through the Professor, so much more than the rough sketch I’d created of him in my head. Flawed, confused, struggling, and yet also so clearly strong in his resolve to follow his inner guidance. I could see many pieces of myself in him.
I stared out at the plaza, which was so different now compared with the Professor’s descriptions of Ashland in the 1980s. Where there had once been grass and oak trees, there was now a paved gathering space with an information kiosk, the bubbling Lithia Fountains, ceramic flowerpots overflowing with brilliant purple fuchsias, benches, and antique lamp posts with banners announcing the spring garden show. I could just make out the front porch of the Merry Windsor hotel, which was the only thing in town that sounded like it hadn’t had a facelift or been updated in the past three decades.
The Professor returned shortly. “Many apologies. That was your mother. Apparently, I had silenced my cell phone and she was worried.” He took his cell out of his tweed jacket and clicked on the sound.
“Do you need to go?”
“No. She was calling to tell me that she and her friends decided to follow up their spa afternoon with a glass of wine. I told her to order a bottle to share and I will gladly provide chauffeur services when they’re done with their afternoon of pampering. No one deserves some respite as much as Helen.”
I knew that the Professor would have told Mom the same thing, regardless of our conversation, but I was glad he had bought us some extra time.
“Shall we finish?”
“Please.”
He picked up the journal. “I’m afraid I should warn you that as you can see from the few remaining pages, we’re nearing the end of the story and I fear that the conclusion will not satisfy you.”
“That’s okay.” I tried to keep my bottom lip from quivering as I proceeded. “I have to tell you that regardless of how things ended with the case, that you sharing this story has meant more than I can ever express. I feel like my dad is right here with us.” Tears spilled from my eyes.
The Professor reached into his breast pocket and offered me his handkerchief. “He is.”
That made me cry harder.
He waited for me to compose myself, then quietly read the final few pages.
The next morning, I went straight to the police station after getting Torte up and running for the day. “Doug, am I crazy to think that Richard Lord might have my best interest at heart?” I asked, helping myself to a cinnamon-and-sugar donut hole from the box that I’d brought along.
Doug ate a powdered sugar donut, leaving white residue on his hands. “Will, you see th
e best in people. That’s one of the reasons that I’m happy to be able to call you a friend.”
“Let me translate that. I’m crazy.”
“No.” Doug wiped his hands on a paper napkin, then attempted to brush powdered sugar from his blue uniform. “I don’t doubt that Richard has a multifaceted personality, but if you want my professional opinion, I think his interest lies elsewhere.”
“What do you mean?”
“Helen.” Doug raised one eyebrow.
“What about Helen?” I ate a plain donut. It had the slightest hint of cardamom and cinnamon. When we made donuts at the bakeshop, we saved the holes to sell by the dozen. Helen had been using the same two-piece donut cutter that allowed us to cut the donut and hole at the same time, for as long as I could remember. The stainless steel tool had seen many years of use. I had asked her when we opened Torte if she wanted to upgrade. I’d seen a variety of rollers and cutters that could make donuts by the dozens, but Helen refused. She liked her method. And who was I to argue? Donut holes had become a popular favorite amongst our customers. It was a win/win. We were able to use dough that we would otherwise have to scrap, and our customers could buy a box of assorted holes at half the cost of a traditional dozen.
“If Richard has any genuine concern about your family’s well-being, I would bet that is due to the fact that he has a crush on your wife.”
I nearly dropped the box of donuts. “Still? I thought he was over that.”
Doug’s face changed. I couldn’t quite decipher the look. Was he irritated with me?
“Will, half of Ashland is in love with Helen. Not only because she’s beautiful, but because she has a rare gift of really listening. There’s no one else like her.” He busied himself with a stack of napkins. “You’re a lucky man.”
I sensed a shift in energy between us. “You think Richard likes Helen?”
He threw his hands up in exasperation. “Yeah, I do. I’m telling you, Will, everyone in town has a little crush on Helen.” Then he shook his head and laughed. “Hand me a chocolate donut and come to my office with me. I can give you a cup of terrible station coffee to wash down the donuts while I show you what I learned from the bank.”
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