Nothing Bundt Trouble

by Ellie Alexander

  “Darling, to what do I owe the pleasure?” He answered on the first ring.

  “Are you busy?” I bundled my dad’s journal on the bedside table.

  “Define ‘busy.’” He shouted something about stage left. “We’re less than two weeks away from previews and still don’t have our blocking mastered.”

  “I won’t keep you then.”

  “No please, I could use a reprieve.” He must have covered the phone with one hand because I could barely hear him dictate orders about running the scene again. “Do tell, what’s going on?”

  “I need your help.”

  “With what? Pastry tasting? Consider it done.”

  “No, a murder investigation.” I had no doubt that would get Lance’s attention.

  “Come again, darling? It sounded like you said ‘murder.’”

  “I did.” I gave him a very condensed overview of my day with the Professor.

  When I finished, he squealed. “Juliet Montague Capshaw, you have yourself a partner in crime. Shall I raid wardrobe? How do you feel about a magnifying glass? Trench coat? Sherlock cap?”

  “None of the above,” I cautioned. “Lance, I want your help, but we have to be extremely subtle. The whole point is that decades have passed. None of the suspects will have any reason to believe we’re looking into the case.”

  “Subtlety is my middle name, darling.”

  “Yeah right.”

  “Don’t wrinkle that pretty brow of yours.”

  How did he know that I was scrunching my forehead?

  “I’ll meet you bright and early and we’ll dive headfirst into this Pastry Case.”

  We hung up. I had a brief flash of regret for involving Lance. He had a tendency toward the dramatic, but he was also cunning, crafty, and well-connected. Not to mention that if I was going to open up old wounds, I wanted a steadfast friend by my side.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The next morning at Torte, I showed Marty and Sterling my recipe for Irish hash. Marty had a brilliant idea to finish the hash in the wood-fired oven, just long enough to infuse it with a smoky flavor. Sterling was inspired to make a traditional Irish stew for our soup of the day. St. Patrick’s Day was right around the corner.

  When the rest of the team arrived, we took it a step further. Bethany and Steph added dark chocolate Guinness stout cupcakes to the daily specials list, and Andy said he would experiment with an Irish cream latte and mint mocha. I hadn’t anticipated that my simple hash would end up being the centerpiece for a full Irish spread, but that’s typically how things evolve in the bakeshop. Everyone builds off one another. Our brainstorming and collaboration sessions were my favorite part of my morning. Rosa took on the task of decorating our front windows for the holiday. We sent her upstairs with trays of green sweets and decorations.

  “Let me know when you’re done,” Bethany called. “I’ll take a bunch of pictures for our social media.” She had spread out at least a dozen cookbooks on the marble countertop. “You have to see this recipe I found,” she said to me, holding a faded index card with my dad’s handwriting.

  “Where did you find this?” I asked as I examined the recipe for pineapple upside-down cake.

  “Steph and I were going through some of your vintage cookbooks to look for other St. Patrick’s Day recipes.” Bethany pointed to an exposed shelf that ran the length of the far side of the kitchen. It had been positioned about a foot below the ceiling. When we remodeled the basement Mom had come up with the idea of using the high ceiling shelf to display cookbooks and some of the original items she had saved from Torte’s early days, like the distressed turquoise kitchen scale that had once belonged to my great-grandmother, and the original bakeshop menu that we had framed.

  “Yeah there’s some funny stuff in those,” Steph chimed in. Her bright purple hair, which she normally wore long, had been cut in an asymmetrical bob. The new style suited her. I liked being able to see her striking, almost violet eyes. I knew that she achieved the effect by dusting her lids with a touch of shimmery purple shadow and matching eye liner. “The eighties must have been a blast. Bethany and I want to try some of these recipes, like tiramisu and chocolate lava cakes.”

  Bethany flipped on her phone to show me pictures she had saved. “Steph and I are thinking we should totally do an eighties bash. You know, like, throwback to the decade of neon. I saw that they used to have dessert carts and trays at restaurants that they would bring around to each table to try and tempt you to order something sweet at the end of the meal. Do you remember that?”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “I do! I had forgotten all about dessert carts. I remember going to dinner at Chateaulin, a fancy French restaurant back in the day, and they would wheel out a dessert cart draped in white linens that had gorgeous slices of New York cheesecake with fresh cherries and giant slices of four-layer carrot cake with cream-cheese frosting. You’re bringing back childhood memories.”

  “No way,” Andy said. He had come downstairs with the first sample of the special he and Sequoia planned to serve—a mint mocha with mint infused whipped cream and green sugar sprinkles. “You’re barely over twenty, boss, right?”

  “Something like that.” I tried to wink, but ended up giving him a lopsided grin.

  He passed around tasters of the sweet coffee drink. “I hope this isn’t too much of a gut-bomb. You guys should come check out the display Rosa did. It’s really cool. Green cupcakes, Bethany’s mint chocolate chip brownies, lots of shamrocks, and even a pot of gold. We decided to go all in on the mint for this one.”

  I took a sip of the minty drink. It had a bright pop of flavor followed by a subtle chocolaty finish. “Oh, this is delish,” I said to Andy. Shockingly it wasn’t ridiculously sweet.

  “Nice.” Andy reached over to give Bethany a high five. “Sequoia suggested making a simple syrup with fresh mint leaves to reduce the sweetness.”

  “It’s a winner.” Marty tipped back his drink. “Can I have another?”

  “Come upstairs whenever. We’re working on an Irish cream next.”

  Marty patted his slightly plump stomach. “Then I’ll save my calories for that, young laddie.”

  Andy returned to the espresso bar.

  “What do you think, Jules?” Bethany asked. “Can you teach us how to make pineapple upside-down cake?”

  It was strange that my worlds were colliding. I’d been reminiscing about desserts from my childhood with the Professor yesterday and now this morning these same recipes were laid out in front of me. I took it as a sign from the universe. “I’d love to, but I’m a novice too. I have a vague memory of my dad making the cake and I remember eating it, but I’ve never baked one.”

  “Let’s do it.” Bethany’s enthusiasm was one of the best things about having her in the kitchen. Her energy was contagious. The three of us spent the next hour testing my dad’s old recipe for pineapple upside-down cake.

  We started by melting brown sugar and butter on the stove. Then we poured the melted bubbling mixture into a baking pan and arranged slices of pineapple on the bottom. The 1980s recipe called for placing maraschino cherries in the center of each pineapple slice.

  “What do you think?” I asked Bethany and Steph. “Should we stick with the classic or elevate it with our Bing cherry preserves that we canned last summer?”

  “Duh, classic.” Stephanie gave me her signature scowl.

  “Really?” I scrunched my forehead. “Bright, red, fake cherries?”

  “Uh, yeah, absolutely. I’m with Steph on this. If we’re going retro, we have to go retro,” Bethany said.

  “Okay. Okay.” I held up my hands in surrender. “Maraschino cherries it is.”

  Stephanie used kitchen tweezers to arrange the brilliant red cherries in the center of the pineapple slices as Bethany took a couple of photos.

  Next, we mixed a simple cake batter consisting of butter, sugar, milk, eggs, baking powder, salt, and flour. The creamy batter didn’t call for any extra flavoring like
vanilla or almond. I knew what the answer would be, but I asked my question anyway. “Should I add a teaspoon or two of vanilla?”

  “She doesn’t get it, Steph,” Bethany scoffed.

  Stephanie rolled her eyes. “I know.”

  “It’s in my nature. I’m a pastry chef. I’m always tweaking recipes.”

  Bethany tapped her short nails on the recipe. “The eighties are totally in right now, so if we’re doing this we have to go with the classic.”

  “Deal.” I handed her the bowl to spread the batter on the top of the pineapple slices.

  “That’s it?” Steph asked.

  I picked up the recipe to make sure we had followed my dad’s directions to the letter. “Yep. It’s super simple. His note here says, ‘Flip the cake with confidence.’” I smiled at the sentiment. “We bake it for fifty minutes and then gather up our confidence to flip it.” With that I slid the cake into the oven. While it baked, we finished the morning prep and sent Marty out on our bread delivery route.

  The timer dinged a little less than an hour later. Bethany and Steph dropped their piping bags and raced over to watch the unveiling. “Okay, read me the instructions again,” I said, removing the golden cake from the oven. The scent of caramelized brown sugar and baked pineapple enveloped the kitchen.

  “It says to immediately turn the cake out of the pan and onto a cake plate or platter,” Bethany read.

  Steph set a white oval cake platter on the counter nearby.

  “You place the platter on top of the pan, using oven mitts. Then carefully lift up the pan but be sure to hold the platter in place.”

  “Got it,” I replied, following her directions.

  “Invert the pan with confidence,” Bethany said with a wide smile.

  “Here goes nothing.” I flipped the platter over and tugged on the pan. It came off with ease, revealing a buttery row of pineapples dotted with maraschino cherries. Caramel brown sugar glaze dripped down the sides of the cake.

  Bethany and Steph let out a collective “Oooh.”

  “Not bad for our first attempt.” I took the pan to the sink.

  “It’s so pretty,” Bethany gushed. “Should we serve it today or save it for ourselves?”

  I washed my hands with oatmeal-and-honey soap. “This one has to be our taster. If everyone gives our retro cake a thumbs-up, then you two can make more.”

  Bethany cut into the rectangular cake, making sure that each piece had a perfect slice of pineapple in the center. “It’s almost too cute to eat.”

  “Did someone say taste? Count me in,” Sterling said from the stove where he was stirring a stockpot of veggies.

  Steph passed around plates of the glossy upside-down cake. With just one bite I was transported back in time. The combination of buttery cake and sweet pineapple made me reach for another taste.

  “This is awesome,” Bethany said through a mouthful.

  I took the fact that everyone else nodded and continued eating their slices as a good sign. “Alright, I’ll leave you two to it. Get baking and I’ll go have Rosa add this to the specials board.”

  I went upstairs to find Lance waiting at the front door. Seeing him awake before the sun had fully risen gave me pause. We didn’t even open for another half hour.

  “You’re here early,” I said, unlocking the door to let him in.

  “As promised.” He ran his long fingers across his tailored gray suit and skinny black tie. “Dressed and ready to start the day. As they say, ‘The early bird catches the worm.’” His body shuddered at the thought. “Not that I have any intention of catching an actual worm. Metaphorically speaking, of course.”

  “Of course.” I ushered him inside. “Do you want coffee?”

  He gave me an exasperated sigh. “Do I want coffee?”

  “Okay, coffee it is.” I called to Andy. “Can you make two of your test Irish cream lattes for me and Lance?”

  “On it!” Andy’s cheeks were wind-burned, I assumed from night skiing on Mt. A.

  Lance and I sat in the same booth the Professor and I had occupied yesterday. Had it really only been a day? It felt like our conversation had gone on for weeks.

  “Do tell. Where do we start?” Lance strummed his fingers on the table. The early morning light pouring in through the front windows made his eyes look bluer than usual.

  I lowered my voice, not that anyone was listening. My team had the morning opening routine down to a science. Rosa tended to the flowers on the dining room tables, snipping away any dead foliage and adding fresh water to the vases. Andy and Sequoia prepped their coffee station. Sequoia poured bags of whole bean coffee into our industrial grinders as Andy used a dry erase pen to mark different milk options on stainless steel frothing pitchers. Bethany lugged heavy trays of key lime tarts, pesto bacon and egg sandwiches, and dark chocolate stout cupcakes up the stairs and then begin arranging them in the glass pastry cases. “Like I said last night, we have to be extremely discreet.”

  “And like I said, I am the model of discretion.” Lance mouthed his retort in an exaggerated whisper.

  “Lance, I’m serious.”

  “O ye, of little faith, Juliet. You know I jest.” He kissed his pinky and then held it up. “I do solemnly swear that I will be the model of discretion.”

  “Okay, but you have to promise not to breathe a word of this to anyone.”

  He crossed his heart with his index finger. “I swear upon Shakespeare’s grave.”

  I wrinkled my brow.

  “What?” Lance looked injured. “My affinity for the world’s greatest playwright runs deep.”

  I didn’t have time to argue.

  “Now that we have that ugly business squared away, are you going to enlighten me on our plan of attack?”

  “I was hoping you might have an idea.” I told him about the note my dad had found on the napkin and the matching handwriting found when someone smashed Torte’s windows. “It’s probably a long shot, but I was thinking that if we could get handwriting samples from each of the suspects, we could compare them with the notes.”

  “Yes, yes. Well done. I like it.” Lance waited as Andy brought us two of Irish cream lattes. “Now this is the way to start a morning,” Lance said to Andy. “Many thanks, young man.”

  Andy was used to Lance’s theatrics. “Let me know what you guys think. I went pretty easy with the Irish cream, but if there’s not enough I can add more.”

  “I’m sure it’s wonderful.” Lance took a sip and gave me a Cheshire cat–like grin. “Subtlety is the key, after all.”

  The drink was masterful. Andy’s expert touch shone through with a coffee-forward drink that had a rich, silky finish without being overly sweet or syrupy.

  “Need anything else?” Andy asked before he left.

  “The kid is skilled,” Lance commented once Andy was out of earshot.

  “I know. Giving him more responsibility has really helped him shine even more.” I felt a surge of pride for my young coffee protégé.

  “Now how to garner handwriting samples from our pool of suspects?” Lance twisted his ascot as he thought. Then he snapped. “I’ve got it! A survey.”

  “A survey?”

  “Yes, of course. We’ve been doing so much work at the theater trying to pull in young and more diverse audiences, and what’s been most successful has been the content we’re producing. Not that the Bard won’t always have a voice on the Elizabethan stage, but some of our most successful shows in the past few years have been contemporary and written by playwrights who traditionally weren’t given a platform for their voice. We’ve been casting the most diverse set of actors on the West Coast and flipping gender roles.” He paused. “I was just reminding the company last night that the concept isn’t entirely new—Shakespeare was casting men as women in his day.”

  I folded my arms across my chest. “Yeah, because women weren’t allowed to act.”

  “Details, details.” Lance waved his hand and winked. “I digress. We’ve been toying
with polling our audience and getting their input on what they’d like to see on OSF’s stages. It’s perfect. Everyone on your potential suspect list has a connection to the theater. We can approach them under the guise that we’re looking for input from influencers in the field. Everyone loves to feel like a celebrity.”

  I choked on my coffee. “Everyone does.” I gave him a knowing look.

  Lance gasped and pointed to his chest. “Moi? Never. I simply give the people what they want.”

  I kicked him under the table.

  He scowled. “Well, what do you say?”

  “It just might work.”

  Lance clapped twice. “Excellent. I’ll have the art department mock something up for us to look at this morning.”

  “Great. I’ll see if I can figure out who is still in the valley. I know that Jeri is in town because I saw her talking with the Professor yesterday. You didn’t say anything to her by chance, did you?”

  “Not a word.” Lance finished his coffee. “Shall we reconvene after lunch?”

  “That works for me.”

  “You’re sure about the Sherlock caps? They could add a certain je ne sais quoi.” He paused for effect.

  I shook my head.

  “But if you were to reconsider, I’m sure I can dig something out of the props department.”

  “I won’t reconsider.”

  He stood and tightened his ascot. “Your loss, darling. Ta-ta!” With that he pranced toward the door, offering Andy lavish praise for the coffee as he left.

  Classic Lance. I laughed at the thought of him sneaking around the plaza in a Sherlock cap with a magnifying glass pressed to his face.

  “Thanks for the coffee,” I said to Andy after gathering our empty cups and taking them to the bin to be washed. “That drink was absolutely the best.”

  Andy’s cheeks were already red from a night of skiing, but they deepened at my compliment. “Aw, shucks, boss. You’re making me blush.”

  Sequoia arranged tasting samples on a tray at the espresso counter. Her long dreadlocks had been tied back into a loose ponytail.

  “Are you giving out samples to customers this morning?” I asked.