“Come on, Lance, let’s go.” I felt the chef’s watchful eyes burning behind me as we made our exit. “He’s kind of creepy,” I said once we were safely outside and away from Ronald’s intense stare.
“You of all people should expect no different. Aren’t chefs supposed to eccentric?”
“Maybe. But did you see him staring at us from the window? I felt like he was sending us a warning—like get out of my restaurant.”
Lance clapped. “Let’s hope so. That could mean we freaked him out.” He took his cell phone from his leather satchel, placed a call, and rattled off rapid-fire questions. “Success,” he said, hanging up the phone. “My admin has tracked down Stewart’s farm and arranged a meeting in an hour. Fancy a drink while we wait?”
Downtown Jacksonville truly was like stepping back in time with its weathered wood and redbrick buildings, original horse hitching posts, and keg barrel garbage cans. A green trolley rumbled down the middle of the street, taking tourists on a historic tour of the old mining town.
We crossed the street to the J-Ville Saloon and found seats at the bar. I ordered an iced tea. Lance, not surprisingly, ordered a martini. “What? Don’t judge. It’s nearly happy hour and my deduction powers work best with a little lubrication. Care to share a basket of tots?” Lance didn’t wait for my response before ordering Cajun-style tots with spicy ranch dipping sauce.
He spread out the papers we had collected so far, comparing Chef Ronald and Shelly’s handwriting. “Take a closer look, darling. How do you think this lines up with the notes you have at home?”
I examined Ronald’s rough notes. The writing was angular with piercing lines that seemed to suggest a need to write fast and be done. That matched Ronald’s personality. “It looks … exacting, don’t you think?”
Lance took the paper from my hand. “Yes, as if he was slicing through the page.”
“Not that we’re experts or anything, but it does line up with his personality.” The truth was that we had no idea how to analyze handwriting. Nor did I know where to go to ask for help with examining the writing samples.
“Speak for yourself.” Lance tipped his martini ever so slightly. “I’d say we’ve discovered a solid lead.”
Our tots arrived. I didn’t think I was that hungry, but the salty potatoes with the spicy ranch hit the spot. “There was something about our conversation with Shelly that left me unsettled though. She doesn’t want to relinquish control of the Cabaret.”
“True, but I can’t blame her. As artistic directors we set a vision and tone for the entire company. To watch someone new come in and recast that vision must sting.”
“Fair enough, but there’s still something about her that feels”—I searched for the right word—“I don’t know. Off.”
Lance made a note on the bottom of Shelly’s survey. “Off.”
We devoured the Cajun tots and talked through the list of suspects. Ronald fit the profile in terms of having a commanding and intimidating personality. Shelly had sounded like she still held a grudge. Pat was dead. That left Stewart and Jeri. I felt lost as we reviewed everything we knew. The Professor had been right—everyone involved in the Pastry Case had had a motive to kill Chuck.
Lance tapped his wrist as he popped the last tot into his mouth. “Our next appointment awaits.”
“Are you sure you have time for this?”
“For murder, I make time.” With that he tossed his jacket over his shoulder and walked out of the bar.
I had no choice but to follow after him. The drive to Stewart’s horse ranch took us on winding, narrow roads outside of Jacksonville. Within minutes the historic brick buildings and wooden plank sidewalks gave way to densely treed hillsides interspersed with lush organic lavender farms. In the far distance the snowy white peak of Mount McLoughlin stood like a sturdy fortress amongst the rolling east hills. Stewart’s property was only about ten minutes from town, but it felt like a world away. Llama and sheep grazed in the pasture to our left as we turned down a long dirt road leading to the house. To the right, three horses and a pony stood in a perfect line against the fence posts as if they had been sent to greet us.
“How rustic,” Lance commented, steering the car into the circular paved driveway in front of the house.
The acreage surrounding Stewart’s house might have been rustic, but the house was nothing of the sort. It was modern in design, with an entire wall of triangular windows and a three-tiered flat roof with outdoor decks. Potted Japanese maples and bonsai trees gave the out-of-place architecture an even more modern vibe.
“This is unexpected.” Lance parked. “How would you describe this? Farm meets Frank Lloyd Wright?”
“Something like that, I guess.”
Stewart appeared at the doorway. He looked younger than I expected. Not that he was young. He was in his mid-seventies, but farm life or perhaps the sunny beaches of Mexico had given him a youthful tan and trim physique. His silver hair caught the light, giving him an ethereal glow as he stepped closer to greet us.
“Lance Rousseau, to what do I owe the pleasure?” He bowed.
“Stewart. The years have been kind to you. You look fabulous.” Lance’s signature singsong tone came out as he clasped Stewart and kissed both his cheeks.
After their mini reunion, Lance cleared his throat. “I don’t believe you know Helen Capshaw’s daughter, Juliet?”
“Wonderful to make your acquaintance.” Stewart gave me a kind smile. “I knew your parents well. Wonderful, wonderful people Helen and Will. We were heartbroken, absolutely devastated, when Will died.”
Pursuing this case had given me new insight into how many people had known and cared for my dad. “Thank you.” I swallowed hard, trying to fight off the lump forming in my throat.
“Come in. Let’s catch up.” Stewart invited us inside, where the clean, futurist design continued. A twin wall of windows offered a museum-like view of the back pastures. Terrariums bursting with life soaked in the afternoon sun. Sleek furniture with pops of canary yellow, teal blue, and burnt orange had been strategically arranged to showcase the view. “Please sit.” Stewart pointed to the living room.
“You have a gorgeous house,” I said, taking a seat in the yellow chair with matching ottoman.
“How much land do you have?” Lance asked.
“A few acres,” Stewart tried to be modest. The land surrounding the house was a few acres and the view of the back pasture stretched as far as my eye could see. He probably had hundreds of acres.
“Enough to pull you away from the tropical southern beaches?” Lance noted.
Stewart swept his hand toward the windows. He still moved like a dancer. “This is a labor of love. I’ve ridden my entire life, and now that I’m retired, I’m glad to be able to provide a sanctuary for horses. Not a day goes by that I don’t get a call about another animal in need of rescue. I try to accommodate as many as I can.”
That didn’t sound like the attitude of a killer.
“The challenge is making sure I have the right team in place to care for the animals while I’m away. The bigger the project grows, though, the less I find myself wanting to fly south for the winter. Who knows, maybe I’ll end up staying here full time?” He was dressed like he was ready for a yoga class in thin gray drawstring flowing silk pants and a tank top that showed off his defined muscles.
Stewart proceeded to explain the process of identifying horses in need of rescue, how he had partnered with a team of vets who rehabbed the animals, and then once they were on the mend how they could roam free on his land.
“Impressive,” Lance commended Stewart for his efforts. “You are leaving quite the legacy, but it’s a far cry from your theater days, isn’t it?”
“In some ways, yes. I feel grateful to be in a position to do this. And, I have to say the horses kick up much less drama than the acting company.”
We both laughed.
“What brings you this way?” Stewart asked, changing the subject. “Your assistant mentioned som
ething about needing input for next year’s season. I’m not sure how much help I can offer in that arena. I’ve been out of the game too long.”
Lance proceeded to tell Stewart the same story we’d told Pat Jr. and Shelly. He listened with interest. When Lance finished, he stared at his feet. “That was a rough time. Those early days I didn’t think we would make it. I didn’t know how I was going to eat, let alone pay a staff of actors, crew, and kitchen staff.” He looked to me. “Your parents were godsends. If it wasn’t for your dad, I don’t think we would have been able to open. We certainly wouldn’t have been able to offer dinner service for the first few weeks. Will saved me.” He caught my eye. I could see him trying to contain his emotion. “Such a shame. He was so young when he died.”
I appreciated hearing his kind words about my dad, but I didn’t want to break down in front of Stewart. He was seeming less and less likely to be our suspect the longer we spoke, but nonetheless I couldn’t rule out the possibility that he could have been involved.
Without prompting he brought up Chuck. “I thought the Cabaret was plagued from the start. Shelly and I wondered if the old church was cursed. We had such a struggle just to open and then Chuck Faraday was killed on opening night. It was like something out of a Greek tragedy.”
“We heard something about Chuck’s death,” Lance said, playing dumb. “It sounded like it went unsolved and the police suspected foul play.”
Stewart shook his head. “That’s true. At least about it being unsolved. They never found the driver. He was killed in a hit-and-run on his way home from the theater on opening night. There were rumors that it was intentional, but I never was sure about that. Chuck was a popular actor at the time with a huge fan base. What motive would anyone have had to kill him?”
The hairs on my arms stood at attention. Now we were onto something. I knew for a fact that Stewart had a big motive for murder—money.
“He was a beloved member of the community. A rising star. Had he lived I’m sure he’d still be acting on your stages now,” Stewart said to Lance.
My senses were at full attention. Stewart was making Chuck out to sound like a saint. Why? No one else we’d spoken with had anything nice to say about Chuck. Was it simply a case of glossing over the past, or was Stewart trying too hard?
Lance caught my eye. I could tell he was thinking the same thing.
“Were you and Chuck close?” he asked.
Stewart shifted in his chair and crossed his legs. “Chuck was my leading man. It was a coup to get him from the Festival. We took him on loan, so to speak. We staged the first run so that it wouldn’t interfere with the opening of Shakespeare. I was distraught after his death. Replacing him wasn’t easy.”
I noticed that Stewart didn’t actually answer Lance’s question.
“Things were different in those days.” He stood and picked up a water bottle to spritz his plants as he spoke. “You didn’t have the level of interest from actors on a national level. We pulled a lot of our talent from the region—maybe stretching north into Portland/Seattle and south to the Bay area. Losing Chuck was a huge blow. We had given him top billing and sent out press touting his as our lead in Dames at Sea. We had to scramble to find a replacement. His understudy wasn’t ready.”
Stewart’s perspective brought up an angle I hadn’t yet considered—that the Cabaret didn’t want to lose their star. Did that negate any potential financial motive for wanting Chuck dead? I felt more confused.
“Those were the days, weren’t they?” He broke a piece off of a succulent plant. “We were in it for the show. For the production. It wasn’t about making a ton of money, although that was a nice bonus. It was about the acting. The dancing. The choreography. The music.” He sighed. “I used to keep a list of folks in town who I knew couldn’t afford a ticket to the show and I would call them and invite them to dress rehearsals. It was my way of sharing the theater life. It was such a gift to be involved with the talent we brought in and to be able to produce new and fresh, fun family shows. Every year at Christmas I would write a traditional British Pantomime. Families came back year after year for those shows. It touched my heart.”
Stewart placed his hand over his heart. “There really isn’t anything like live theater. Nothing else I’ve done in my life compares. Nothing.”
He and Lance shared a moment before Lance handed him our fake survey and got him talking more about the inaugural season. I watched his body language as Stewart reminisced and filled out the form. His hand quivered, but that could have been due to age. “I haven’t thought about those days for a long time. It was a different life. A different Ashland, for sure.”
He spoke as if in a trance. I could tell that he was lost in memories of the past as his eyes glossed over and his voice developed a starry quality. Stewart repeated many of the same stories I had heard from the Professor about the emerging entrepreneurial spirit of Ashland and how everyone banded together to help one another out. “Why Shelly and I thought we could buy the old pink church and turn it into a functioning theater is beyond me. I guess you can chalk it up to the naivety of youth. It was in wretched shape. Gross, dirty mattresses lined the floor. There was graffiti inside and out, water damage. Everything was pink. We had to tear out an old pink organ and completely rework the choir loft. We thought renovations would take a year at most. They ended up taking four years and we were literally gluing tables to their bases on opening night. Can you imagine?”
Lance nodded in solidarity. “Ah, the joys of small theater. Remind me to tell you about my early stint in Wisconsin. Let’s just say that it wasn’t pretty.”
Stewart went on to talk at length about his friendship with my dad. “Will was one of a kind.” He gently massaged an aloe plant. “I had to beg and plead with him to bake for us. I would do it all over again. I still dream about his banana Bundt cakes smothered with silky caramel sauce. To this day, no dessert I’ve ever had compares with what Will Capshaw could bake.” My mouth watered as he described the dessert my parents had created for opening night. The longer we stayed, the more I hoped that Stewart was not our killer. I couldn’t let myself get swept into the past. I had to stay clearheaded if we were going to solve this case.
Chapter Twenty-Two
We left Stewart’s with long hugs and a promise of cocktails in Ashland soon. I didn’t want him to be the killer, but I couldn’t rule him out either.
“So about those cocktails, shall we pop into Alchemy or Pucks on the way home?” Lance asked as he started the car.
“I don’t think I’m in the mood.” I looked to the back seat where the box from Pat sat safely untouched. “I’m wiped out after this long day, and honestly my mind is spinning. I think I got my hopes up. I know it sounds silly, but I guess I thought maybe we might have stumbled upon a major clue today.”
“There you go, sounding gloomy again. No bad attitudes allowed in my car, Juliet Capshaw.”
“Sorry.” I watched the farmland fade into forest. “It’s just that I’m more confused than when we started today. I guess I had kind of hoped that this would be easy.”
“If it was easy, the Professor would have closed the case years ago.”
“I know. I’m not that naïve. I think it’s because of my father. I feel personally responsible. Like I owe it to him to solve the mystery. The Professor too. You should have seen him, Lance. He was almost inconsolable.”
“That’s understandable. I’m sure that it must have been hard for him to relive the memories. But don’t give up hope. We’ve only been at it for a day. Your dad and the Professor spent weeks—years—trying to figure out who killed Chuck. Cut yourself a little slack.”
“I’ll try.”
We drove in silence. I appreciated Lance giving me some space to be quiet with my thoughts. He pulled in front of my house, put the car in park, and kissed my cheek. “Get your beauty sleep, Juliet. We’ll tackle our last suspect tomorrow. Chin up.”
I left him with a promise not to mope. Surpris
ingly, I didn’t. After a quick bite of leftover soup and a cup of tea, I was asleep the minute my head hit the pillow. Chalk it up to emotional overload or stress, either way I slept through the night and woke the next morning feeling lighter and more determined than ever to help the Professor solve the case.
Alas, duty called. I spent the bulk of the day running up and down the stairwell between the kitchen and the dining room, restocking slices of pineapple upside-down cake, chocolate hazelnut brownies, and pistachio shortbread. Torte hummed with the sound of happy customers lingering over post-lunch lattes and blood-orange ricotta cookies.
Lance sauntered in a little after three. He wore a slate gray suit with a mint green polka-dot tie. “Are you ready for a break, darling?” He greeted me with an air kiss. “I thought about dropping by to see our”—he paused and whispered—“suspect.”
The dining room was quiet. There was no need for him to whisper.
“So I took it upon myself to invite Jeri to stop by my office. Upon further consideration I decided it would be better to interrogate her on our home turf.”
“Interrogate?” I chuckled.
“You know what I mean, darling.” Lance tapped his watch. “She’s meeting us in my office in ten minutes. No time to dally.”
“Give me a second to let my staff know I’m taking off for a few.” I hurried downstairs to check in with the team. Everything was running smoothly. I glanced at the box of memorabilia from Pat that I had brought with me earlier in the morning. Should I bring it? No, I could go through it later tonight when the bakeshop was empty.
I returned to find Lance pacing upstairs. “Shall we?” He offered me his arm. We walked across the street past the Merry Windsor, and up the Shakespeare stairs to the bricks on the OSF campus. “The bricks,” as locals refer to the large brick courtyard border by tiered grass areas and cement retaining walls in front of the Elizabethan theater, were packed with school tour groups. It was always amusing to watch chaperones trying to herd energetic teenagers into orderly lines before the show. It seemed a lot like herding cats.
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