“We decided the Irish cream is good, as long as you’re cool with that?”
“Absolutely. I loved it.” I picked up one of the small paper tasting cups. “What’s this?”
“It’s a dirty chai latte. Half masala chai and a shot of espresso with steamed milk.” She waited while I tasted the drink.
“Mmm. This is delicious too.” The spicy, sweet chai and strong espresso were an interesting and unexpected combination. “You guys keep outdoing yourselves.”
Sequoia slowly topped off the last of the taster cups. “We like to keep it fresh, you know?”
“I do.” I stopped and checked in with Rosa who was at the pastry case, ready to take the first orders of the morning. “Are we stocked up enough?”
She smiled, revealing dimples on her cheeks. “Yes. I think we are as ready as we can be.” She nodded to the windows where a small line had already formed. Customers pointed at Rosa’s whimsical St. Patrick’s Day display.
“Shall I let them in?”
Rosa wore her dark naturally curly hair in two braids fastened with pretty aquamarine clips. She held up a finger and fixed one of the clips. Then she tightened the Torte apron around her narrow waist. “Okay. Let them eat cake.”
I chuckled and went to unlock the front door. Within minutes the bakeshop was humming with happy morning energy. I touched base with the kitchen team to make sure they weren’t in need of an extra pair of hands. Marty and Sterling tried to one-up each other with bad jokes as they chopped veggies for the hash special and our soup of the day.
“Why did the lazy man want to work in the bakery?” Marty asked, shielding his eyes with one hand as he diced red onions.
“Oh man, do I want to know?” Sterling added olive oil to a stockpot and tossed in chopped garlic.
“Because he wanted to loaf around.” Marty’s boisterous laugh reverberated through the kitchen.
“That’s bad.” Sterling stirred the sizzling garlic.
At the opposite end of the kitchen, Stephanie was frosting the chocolate stout cupcakes and Bethany was packaging wholesale bread orders.
“I have some ordering to do,” I said to the team. “If you need me, I’ll be in the office.”
“Don’t forget to order inventory for Sunday Supper,” Sterling reminded me. “We were going to talk about a theme.”
“Right. Thanks. Quick brainstorm, any ideas?”
Marty chimed in. “I make a mean soda bread. What about an Irish theme?”
“I love it. What if you make more of the stew?” I asked Sterling. “We could do a St. Patrick’s Day picnic with sandwiches, potato salad, stew, an Emerald Island salad, and a hot whiskey cake.”
“Kill me now.” Marty pretended to stab himself with a wooden spoon.
“That’s good, right?” I looked to Sterling for confirmation. Mom and I had made him our official sous chef, and I wanted to make sure that he knew he had a voice.
“It works for me, but you might get some pushback from those two.” He turned his head to the decorating station where Bethany and Steph both had headphones in as they piped rainbow and shamrock shortbread cookies. “I think they have their hearts set on an eighties dinner.”
“Right.” I looked at a stainless steel tray waiting to go upstairs with square slices of pineapple upside-down cake.
“What if we do both,” Sterling suggested.
“An Irish eighties dinner?” I wasn’t sure how the two would mingle together.
“No.” Sterling dabbed the corner of a plate with a paper towel. “Why not do another dinner this month? We have the space. They’ve been selling out, and I’d be up for working with Steph and Beth to create an eighties flashback menu.”
“That’s great. Let’s do it.” I was thrilled to hear that Sterling wanted to take on more responsibility, and he was right. Every time we announced a Sunday Supper, tickets sold out within a few hours.
“Cool.” He ladled stew into a bowl. “Can you order some parsnips and Yukon gold potatoes for the Irish supper?”
“For sure.” I left to work on our inventory order in my office. While I already had my laptop at my fingertips, it wouldn’t hurt to do some research into the current whereabouts of the suspects. I grabbed a notebook and jotted down a few notes as I scoured the web for any info.
Jeri was easy. She was still living in Ashland and working part-time for the Camelot Theater in Talent. Shelly was currently the managing director of the Cabaret, although she had sold her ownership stake to a young couple from L.A., and according to what Lance had told me, was staying on for a few months to help with the transition. Stewart had retired and lived half of the year in Mexico and the other half in Ashland. I figured if Lance and I started with Shelly, she would likely know if Stewart was currently stateside. Ronald was the head chef at a hotel in Jacksonville. That left Pat. I made a call to the former home of Rumors, which was now a swanky well-reviewed restaurant, ironically named The Grapevine. The woman I spoke with on the phone told me that Pat’s son had inherited the building and was the current owner. It was a start.
I printed out a list of everyone’s current or most recent address and employer. Waiting for Lance was agony. I paced between floors, probably annoying my staff by hovering. When he finally arrived a little after noon, I was bursting with anticipatory anxiety.
“Darling, take a breath.” Lance pressed his index fingers and thumbs together to model a meditative pose for me.
“I know. I feel like a kid the night before my birthday or something. What if we crack the case, Lance? This might really work.” I waited while he held the door open for me. A bank of gray clouds to the east threatened rain, but above us the sun was as bright as Rosa’s pot of gold in the front windows.
He waved to a patron, then pulled me outside onto the sidewalk. “You are an eager beaver, aren’t you? I feel like we’ve swapped roles.”
“Sorry.” I breathed in the early spring air. “Did you make the survey?”
Lance opened a leather attaché case and handed me a file folder. “Have a look.”
I was impressed that the design team had been able to put together something so official in such a short amount of time. There were ten plays listed on the survey with images of each playbill and a short synopsis. Underneath the choices there was blank space with a number of leading questions about feedback, personal preferences, and if they had any objections to the proposed productions.
“I requested plenty of open space so that our unsuspecting suspects will have no choice but to fill in the blanks. A survey with simple YES or NO boxes wouldn’t fulfill our purposes, now would it?”
“Good thinking.”
Lance reached into his leather bag and took out a Sherlock cap. “Just in case the spirit moves you, darling.” He placed the houndstooth deerstalker tweed hat on his head. It looked ridiculous with his modern, tailored sleek gray suit.
“No way.” I laughed and yanked the cap off his head. “You ready?”
“Ready and willing.” He tucked the file folder back into the bag. “Lead the way.”
I wanted to start at The Grapevine because I’d been told that Pat’s son was usually available in the early afternoon before the happy-hour crowd descended. A mix of nerves and excitement swirled in my stomach as Lance and I walked up Main Street. Were we about to close a cold case?
Chapter Nineteen
The Grapevine had gone through a major renovation since its heyday as Rumors in my dad’s time. Gone was the wood paneling and red leather booths the Professor had described. Now the basement restaurant was sleek and modern with slate-tile floors, bamboo tables, and Edison-style light bulbs and succulent plants hanging from the ceiling.
“We should come here for cocktails more often,” Lance said, admiring the gold-leaf wall behind the bar.
“Good luck getting a table. This place is booked months in advance during the season.”
“Darling, please.” Lance glared at me. “You’re talking to me.”
; “Okay, fine, but let’s stay on point.” I walked up to the bar where a young guy about Andy’s age wearing a white shirt with black suspenders was polishing copper Moscow mule mugs. “Hi, we’re looking for the owner.”
“Pat?” He asked.
“I thought Pat’s son owned the restaurant now.”
The bartender looked confused. “Hang on a minute.” He left and returned shortly with a guy in his early forties who wore an expensive black suit jacket and slacks. He walked with the help of a matching black cane.
“I’m Pat, how can I help you?”
Lance stepped forward and introduced himself.
Pat immediately recognized Lance and invited us to sit down. The bartender brought over glasses of water. Lance launched into his fable about wanting input on next season’s shows.
“I’m flattered,” Pat said when Lance finished. “But I have to admit, I’m confused. You mentioned wanting feedback from members of the greater theater community, but I’m not connected to the theater.”
I jumped in. “We were under the impression that The Grapevine used to be a nightclub called Rumors, is that right?”
Pat nodded.
“In doing research into the Cabaret, we learned that Rumors used to be connected to the theater and we wondered if that was still true now.”
Pat looked skeptical. “Why were you researching the Cabaret? I’m not sure I’m following.”
I felt splotches forming on my neck. Lance and I should have talked this through better.
Fortunately, Lance was quick-witted. “One of our artistic goals for next season, as you’ll see when you look through some of the proposed shows, is to give our patrons a full-circle tour of Ashland’s thriving theater scene both on and off-Bardway. We want to pay homage to the Cabaret’s inaugural season. You’ll find three selections of shows from their first year. The same is true for the surrounding area theaters—Camelot, Randal, and all the others.”
Lance was so convincing that I almost believed him.
Pat relaxed. “I see. Well, I’m happy to offer suggestions as a food guy. It’s too bad my dad isn’t here.”
“Is your dad Pat, too?”
“He was. I’m Pat Junior.” He looked to his feet.
“Was?” Lance asked, his voice thick with concern.
Pat nodded. “Yeah, Dad died a long time ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I offered.
“It’s a stressful life, the restaurant business. Especially back in the eighties. I think Dad had a steak for dinner every night at the bar. Plenty of whiskey, lots of late nights, and trying to pay the lease, mortgage on the house, salaries, and college for the three of us kids. The stress finally got to him. He had a massive heart attack three years ago. Mom has always said at least he went quick. It’s pretty amazing he lived into his early eighties, actually. You can’t eat like that these days.” He pressed his hand on his thin stomach. Pat Jr. wasn’t a large man. I would guess that Mom was taller than him. “I run up in the hills—do the Lithia Loop and Alice in Wonderland trails at least three or four days a week to stay fit. Not my dad. His idea of exercise was lifting a knife to slice into his steak.”
Heart attack, I made a mental note. That likely meant that Pat Sr. hadn’t been our killer’s second victim, but it also meant that we had hit our first dead end. If Pat had killed Chuck, there would be no way to prove it now that he’s dead.
Lance offered his condolences and went through the theater survey with Pat Jr. We were about to leave when an idea came to me.
“You wouldn’t happen to have any old memorabilia from Rumors would you? Maybe notes from your dad, photos?”
“Probably, why?”
“Since my parents started the bakeshop at about the same time, I thought it might be fun to put together a scrapbook of Ashland’s renaissance.”
“Let me look and see what I have in the office.” Pat left us.
“Well played, darling. Ashland’s renaissance.”
Actually, the idea was starting to take shape in my mind. The Daily Tidings might be interested in doing a historical piece about Ashland in the 1980s if I could provide them with enough material. “You too,” I said to Lance. “I couldn’t think of anything when Pat asked why we were reaching out to him.”
“You have to stay nimble on the stage.”
Pat returned with an old cardboard box. “Here you go. It’s everything from Rumors. Just bring it back when you’re done.”
We thanked him and left with the box. If nothing else, we might be able to find an old handwriting sample amongst Pat’s things. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
“Now what?” Lance asked when we were outside. “Our first suspect is dead. That can’t be a good omen.”
“No.” I shifted the box of memorabilia. “When Pat Jr. said his dad was dead, my first thought was that Chuck’s killer had struck again. But when he said Pat Sr. lived into his eighties, natural causes seem more likely.”
“Don’t sound so glum. Chin up. There are four more suspects on our list and the day is young and so are we.” Lance motioned to the Cabaret. “Next up, Shelly?”
“Sure.” I followed him into the converted church building. It was hard to imagine that the gleaming building had been run-down and abandoned. Ever since I could remember, the historic theater had been a crown jewel with its carved dark wood railings, opulent baroque chandelier, and deep red velvet curtains. Stepping inside the Cabaret always felt like stepping into a different world.
Today was no different.
The company was rehearsing onstage when Lance and I came in. A woman in her mid-thirties sat in the front row, offering input and suggestions. I assumed this must be the new owner Lance had told me about.
She turned in our direction and spotted us. “Take five,” she told the actors and hurried over to greet us. “Lance, to what do we owe the pleasure?”
Lance kissed her on both cheeks. “I thought I would pop by and introduce you to Ashland’s pastry muse. Amanda, meet my dear friend Juliet Capshaw.”
My mouth hung open as I stared at the woman standing next to Lance. I recognized her immediately. “Amanda? Amanda Howard?”
“Yes, I mean, it’s Amanda Brooks now.” Her deep brown eyes lit up with delight. “Juliet Capshaw! No way! How long has it been?” Amanda leaned in and embraced me in a huge hug.
“I can’t believe it’s you,” I said staring at my childhood friend. Amanda was the daughter of my parents’ friend, Wendy. She and I had attended preschool together, but had lost touch when they moved to California when I was in third grade. “I see your mom at the bakeshop all the time, but I hadn’t heard you were back in town, too.”
Amanda beamed a smile. “It’s been a whirlwind! The opportunity to purchase the Cabaret came kind of out of the blue and my husband, Jed, and I jumped at the chance. Of course there was no pressure from my mom.” She winked. “Literally a week ago I was in L.A. packing up our condo and this week I’m getting ready to launch a show.”
Lance cleared his throat. “Um, ladies, anyone care to fill yours truly in on what’s happening here?”
I squeezed Amanda’s hand. She hadn’t aged at all. I would have recognized her doe-like brown eyes and silky straight chestnut hair anywhere. We had been like sisters when we were young. Since Wendy often lent a hand at Torte, Amanda and I had spent countless hours “helping” our moms frost cupcakes and sample tastes of buttery shortbread and banana nut muffins. We had attended dance class together and even done a handful of productions at OSF in our early years.
“Amanda and I go way back,” I said to Lance. “We grew up together.”
“How charming. A reunion.” He placed his hand over his heart. “For the record, I approve. You two seem like you should be friends.”
“Well as long as we have Lance’s approval, we’ll have to plan a night out and catch up.”
“I would love that! Plus I’m dying to come see what you’ve done to the bakeshop and try your pastries.
My mom has been raving about Torte.”
“Yes, come by soon. We have so much to get caught up on and I’ll make sure you get the star treatment.” I moved the box from Pat into my other arm.
“It’s uncanny that you’re here,” Amanda said and then looked thoughtful for a moment. “You won’t believe what I found this morning.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
She tucked her long brown hair behind her ears. “I’ve been reviewing all kinds of old materials—donor receipts, actor contracts, playbills, brochures, and menus in the process of taking over and I just saw your dad’s name on the original menu. I think I have some old photos from opening night, if you want to see them.”
Words stuck in the back of my throat for a second.
Amanda must have picked up on my emotion. “Your dad was one of a kind. He always felt like a father to me. He was so funny and kind. Do you remember how he used to pretend to be the Swedish chef from The Muppet Show when he would make us pancakes for breakfast? That terrible Swedish accent. I can still hear it in my head.” She was quiet for a moment. “I’ll make copies of everything I can find for you.”
“That would be lovely.” My voice sounded shaky. I didn’t want to cry.
Lance cleared his throat. “I was hoping for a minute with Shelly. Is she still hanging around?”
Amanda’s face changed. She grimaced and pointed above us. “She’s up in the booth.” Again, she gave Lance a knowing look.
“Do you mind if we go have a word? I want to get her input on some future shows.”
“No problem.” Amanda forced a smile. “She’s all yours. Good luck.”
I didn’t think she was going to say more, but as Lance and I started to move away she reached for his arm to stop him.
“Can I ask for some professional advice?” Her voice was barely audible.
“Of course.” Lance leaned in.
“When we purchased the theater, part of the deal was for Shelly to stay on for six months and help get us up to speed. It sounded great at the time, but she’s making me crazy. She watches over everything I do like a hawk.” Amanda looked to me. “Even those old papers and photos I was telling you about. She literally stood behind my desk asking why I was bothering. She wants to shred the entire pile. I told her I wanted them for posterity. Having spent the early part of my childhood here in Ashland, I have so many memories I want to revisit. You never know when historical gems like that might be useful.”
Nothing Bundt Trouble Page 17