Nothing Bundt Trouble

by Ellie Alexander

  When we reached the Bowmer Theater, Lance greeted actors, company members, and patrons before continuing to his office.

  Lance’s office was bigger than many college students’ apartments. Awards and playbills were displayed on the walls. There were stacks of manuscripts waiting on his desk. I imagined hopeful, aspiring playwrights keeping their phones glued to their bodies in hopes that Lance might call to give them the good news that their work had been selected for next year’s season.

  I took a seat on the plush leather couch, while he took off his jacket and loosened his tie. “Drink?” He ran his hand across the small bar next to his desk, which was stocked with expensive bottles of gin, vermouth, and whiskey along with an assortment of glasses.

  “I’m fine.”

  Jeri arrived promptly. She beamed with delight as Lance gave the bogus story about being desperate for her insight and advice.

  “I was thrilled when you called,” Jeri gushed. She reminded me of an aging rocker with her go-go boots, tight black jeans, and frizzed bleached hair. “Too often it seems that the past gets overlooked. I had a storied history here in these hallowed walls and I’m happy to provide you with anything that might be helpful.” She glanced around his office. “This has certainly changed since back in the day. I like what you’ve done. It’s very homey.”

  Lance choked on the glass of water he had poured for himself. Jeri meant “homey” as a compliment, but the word made Lance visibly gag.

  “You were involved in helping to launch the Cabaret?” I jumped in while he tried to recover.

  Jeri frowned. “Not exactly. How strange to be asked about the Cabaret. I haven’t thought about those days in many, many years and now within the span of a few days the topic has come up on more than one occasion. Isn’t it strange how things come in cycles?”

  “Was someone else asking about the Cabaret?” Lance held one pinky in the air as he sipped his water.

  “Yes. I bumped into Doug yesterday and he told me that some new information regarding the death of Chuck Faraday had emerged. He asked me for a quick recap of what I remembered from that awful night.”

  An unsettled feeling swirled in my stomach. Was Jeri confirming my suspicions? Had new details emerged in the case, or had the Professor said that as a ploy to get her talking?

  Another thought formed in my mind. What if the Professor had remembered something in retelling the story to me? I listened with interest as Jeri continued.

  “Chuck was a great actor, but not a smart man. He got himself messed up in some stupid stuff. They never could prove it, but if you ask me, he got himself killed.”

  I couldn’t believe that Jeri was being so forthcoming. Lance and I shared a look. “How so?” Lance asked, pouring a glass of water for Jeri.

  “Are you two familiar with the case?”

  “Not exactly,” Lance lied. “We’ve heard a few snippets here and there, but Chuck’s death was long before my time here. And Juliet was just a child then.”

  “Right. Of course.” Jeri held the water glass that Lance had offered her. Then she set it on the coffee table. Before she continued with her story, she picked it up again, but didn’t take a drink. “Chuck and I were great friends. He was a larger-than-life personality. Everyone in town had the biggest crush on him. We called him Ashland’s Burt Reynolds. He could charm anyone.”

  The way she spoke about him with a dewy quality to her voice made me wonder if she was including herself.

  “He could have made it in Hollywood. He was destined for stardom. Even though he was only with the company for a couple seasons before he died, he left his mark on the stage. After he died it was like a light had gone out in Ashland.” She clutched the water glass tighter.

  Jeri didn’t sound like Chuck’s killer, she sounded like she was speaking about a long-lost love.

  “Things took a bad turn for Chuck when he got involved with the Cabaret. I warned him. I told him it was a bad idea. I thought he was going to be stretched too thin, working for both companies, but then it turned out that he was bleeding both companies dry.” She went on to explain how Chuck had created a ticket scheme. Everything she told us lined up with what the Professor had shared.

  “I was devastated when he was killed.” She set the water glass down again. “Don’t get me wrong I was upset with him for what he had done, but I didn’t want him to die. He was so young. Such a waste. He was destined for more. Trust me he would have made it big in Hollywood with those eyes and that face. Such a terrible, terrible waste.” She trailed off.

  “You said you thought his death was intentional?” Lance asked, faking a surprised tone for her.

  “Huh?” Jeri stared at the water glass. “Oh, yeah, I’m sure he was killed. It was definitely intentional. The police knew it too. They just couldn’t prove it. Chuck had gotten in over his head. I believe that he regretted his decisions and was trying to make them right, but it was too little too late.”

  “Do you have an idea who did it?”

  Jeri broke her gaze from the water and looked at me as if I had just walked into the room. “I have lots of ideas. The problem is that there were too many people who wanted him dead. Ronald, Pat, Shelly, Stewart. I could keep going. Like I said, he was in way over his head. You two might be too. You should be careful, you know. Whoever killed Chuck has gotten away with it for thirty years. If you start asking a bunch of questions, you might end up like him.”

  Was that a threat or was she genuinely warning us? I couldn’t be sure.

  We talked a little longer and then Lance went through the charade of having Jeri make notes about different potential OSF performances. He sent her on her way with complimentary tickets and a promise to meet for happy hour soon.

  “Thoughts? Impressions?” Lance asked after she left.

  “She doesn’t sound like a killer. In fact, I got the impression she had feelings for him.”

  “Me too, but that warning at the end. Is she actually worried about us, or was that her subtle way of telling us to back off?” The phone on Lance’s desk buzzed. He answered it. “Sadly, darling, I must cut our time together short. Duty calls. Drama on the stage. What else is new?” He pressed his hand to his forehead.

  “That’s okay. I need some time to process everything. And I want to go through the things Pat gave us and look over my dad’s notes some more.” I stood and stretched.

  “Shall I come over later? I could bring a pizza?”

  “No. You have previews to prepare for. I can’t keep pulling you away from work.”

  Lance looked disappointed, but he didn’t protest. “Work. It’s nothing but work for me.”

  I knew that his work, like mine, was his life. In the best possible way.

  “I should probably check in with the cast.” He stood, reaching for his jacket, and walked me to the door. “Coffee. First thing, tomorrow? You must promise to fill me in on any and every detail you might discover without me tonight.”

  “Promise.” I blew him a kiss and returned to the bakeshop. A handful of late-afternoon coffee drinkers lingered in the dining room. Sequoia, Rosa, and Stephanie had already departed. Stephanie was taking classes at SOU and left before noon most days. Andy was cleaning up the coffee bar, and Bethany was boxing up the last few straggling pastries in the case.

  “Did I miss anything?” I asked.

  Bethany tucked an almond croissant into a white cardboard box and closed the lid. “Nope. Everything’s been excellent. We sold like crazy. People loved the pineapple upside-down cake. I’m glad we made more today, and Steph and I think it should be on the specials board all week. You wouldn’t believe how many customers said it was like biting into a slice of their childhood. This is it for the leftovers. I was planning to swing them by the shelter.”

  “That would be great, thanks.”

  “You’re going to the shelter?” Andy asked. “I thought you said you might come up to the mountain and take some pics.”

  Bethany shrugged. “I don’t kno
w. I’m kind of tired.”

  I knew that Bethany had a crush on Andy, and lately she had changed tactics, appearing nonchalant and disinterested anytime she was around him. It appeared to be working.

  “Come on, you have to come. It’s going to be an epic night of skiing, and the lodge has a band and fun drinks. You can take the shuttle up with me. I’ll show you around.”

  Bethany looked at the box in her hands. “I don’t know. I should drop this by the shelter.”

  “I can take it later,” I offered. I didn’t want to get in the way of Bethany’s strategy with Andy, but I didn’t want her to feel obligated either.

  “Do you mind?”

  “Not one bit. I was going to do some work downstairs and then I could use a short walk. I’ll take it later.”

  “So you’re coming, right?” Andy held up his hand for a high five.

  “I guess.” Bethany slapped her hand to his.

  “It’s going to be awesome, trust me.” His brown eyes were locked on hers. I wondered if he was starting to reciprocate her feelings.

  I left them to finish cleaning and went to check in on the kitchen staff. Marty and Sterling had wiped every countertop and had scrubbed each pot and pan. The space smelled like rosemary and lemon soap with a faint hint of applewood from the smoldering fire.

  “Wow, this place is spotless.”

  Marty clapped Sterling on the back. “Thank this guy. He did most of it.”

  Sterling brushed off the compliment. “Nah, it was a team effort. I’m taking off, Jules. I have a class tonight.”

  “A class?” I was intrigued.

  “Yeah, Steph signed me up for a poetry workshop at the college. We’ll see how it goes. I told her I would give it a try.”

  “That’s fantastic.” I was thrilled that Sterling was pursuing writing. He had the heart of a poet. I constantly caught him sketching notes in a journal, but as of yet he hadn’t been ready to share anything he had written. Good for Stephanie to encourage him to take a writing class.

  Marty tossed a dish towel in the bin. “I’m taking off too. I have a hot date.”

  “You do?” This shocked me more than Sterling voluntarily taking a class. Marty’s wife had died over a year ago and I hadn’t heard him say anything about dating again.

  He smirked. “Yep. With a pizza. I signed up for a pizza dinner at a new joint in Medford. Thought I would check out the competition.”

  They left together. I sighed with relief. Finally, I was alone and could go through the box that Pat had given me. If there was a clue about Chuck’s death mixed in with the Rumors memorabilia, I intended to find it.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  With everyone gone, I spread out the papers and photos from Pat Jr. and started trying to make sense of what he had given me. The ink on the carbon copies had faded with time. I had to squint to try to decipher Pat’s writing. It was more masculine, like the warning note, but Pat’s scroll was small with tight strokes, not large and demanding. I read through old profit-and-loss statements, early menus, the lineup of musicians (which was quite impressive), and marketing materials, like print ads that ran in the Daily Tidings touting well-drink specials for locals. Near the bottom of the stack I found a letter that Pat had drafted to an attorney asking for advice on how to potentially press charges against Chuck Faraday.

  Interesting!

  I read the correspondence between Pat and his lawyer. Pat had advocated strongly for legal action against Chuck. His lawyer had responded with empathy, understanding Pat’s frustration, yet also made it clear that without a signed contract it would be nearly impossible to prove any wrongdoing.

  Pat’s last letter to his lawyer read: “You’re telling me I have no other recourse? I’m supposed to accept the fact that Faraday has used me and stolen thousands of dollars?”

  Could Pat have become so furious about his inability to recoup lost finances from Chuck that he took matters into his own hands? But killing Chuck wouldn’t have given him any money back. His only motive would have been revenge.

  I made a note about Pat’s attempt to sue Chuck and placed the letters to and from his attorney on the top of the pile to show Lance later. There wasn’t anything else of interest. I was about to head to the shelter to drop off the box of pastries when a heavy knock sounded on the basement door.

  “Jules, you still here? It’s Thomas,” a voice called from the other side of the door.

  I was glad Thomas had identified himself. Looking into Chuck’s death had me on edge. I unlocked the door to let him in. He wore his traditional blue police uniform, badge, and tennis shoes, and tonight he sported a navy blue baseball hat with ASHLAND POLICE embroidered in yellow thread.

  “Hey, I spotted the basement lights on when I walked by and thought I might find you here.” Thomas looked expectantly at the kitchen to see if I was baking. Disappointment flashed across his youthful face.

  “Are you hungry?”

  He grinned. “You know me, Jules. I can always eat. It doesn’t look like you’re baking though. What’s with all the paperwork?”

  “Come on in. I’ll whip up something.” I locked the door behind him.

  Thomas made himself comfortable on a bar stool and starting rifling through the papers I’d left out. “What is all this? It’s ancient.” He held up a flimsy sheet of yellow carbon paper.

  “I got those from Pat Jr.” I went to the walk-in to see what we had on hand. I decided on omelets. Simple and delicious. Omelets are such a versatile dish. They work at any meal: breakfast, lunch, or dinner. I grabbed a carton of eggs, heavy cream, fresh basil, tomatoes, a red onion, goat cheese, and salami.

  “Jules, don’t go to any trouble. I was stopping by to say hi.” His sharp eyes immediately landed on the pile of newspaper clippings and Cabaret brochures.

  “It’s no trouble. Plus I could use the company right now. My head is spinning.”

  Thomas tapped on the stack of papers. “Let me guess. It has something to do with this.”

  I beat eggs and heavy cream together, adding a dash of salt and pepper. Then I poured a splash of olive oil in a cast-iron skillet and turned the gas burner to medium low. In culinary school the true test for any bourgeoning chef is their ability to make an omelet. As simple as the egg dish might sound, the omelet is viewed as the litmus test in the culinary world. Making a perfect omelet is extremely difficult and technical, requiring skill and knowledge about heat, texture, touch, time, and finish. Creating a glistening, luxurious omelet that wasn’t overcooked or over-seasoned took patience and practice.

  While I started our omelets, I told Thomas everything about the case. I couldn’t believe how quickly details poured out of me. I barely noticed when he removed his iPad mini from his police jacket and started making notes.

  “This explains why the Professor had Kerry and me pull old records.”

  “He did?” I diced the red onion and rolled the basil to chiffonade.

  “Yeah, he had us get the records from an unsolved hit-and-run in the 1980s. I haven’t had a chance to look at the file, but this can’t be a coincidence.”

  I thought about what Jeri had said to me and Lance. Had the Professor realized something new about the case? “I feel terrible for him,” I said to Thomas. “I’ve never seen the Professor like this, and it’s my fault. I’m the one who showed him my dad’s journal and brought this case back to the forefront. He said Chuck’s murder will stick with him until the day he dies.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t say anything to him, unless he brings me in on the case,” Thomas reassured me. “But, Kerry and I will do our own digging.” He leafed through the stack of papers from Pat. “Can I make copies of these?”

  “Sure.” I poured the frothy eggs into the hot pan and with a flick of my wrist coated the bottom with the mixture. “Just be sure not to bring it up around here. The Professor asked me not to say anything to Mom until he has a chance to figure out the best way to share the story with her.”

  “That mak
es sense.” Thomas pointed to the salami and cheese. “Can I help with something? I feel bad, I didn’t come here to mooch dinner off of you.”

  “I’m so glad you stopped by. I really needed to talk this through.” Granted, I had already talked it through with Lance, but Thomas was a professional member of Ashland’s law enforcement team. I welcomed his thoughts and perspective.

  “And I’m always in need of kitchen help,” I added, watching the omelet. “Go ahead and dice that salami.”

  He washed his hands and got to work.

  “You won’t believe who’s back in town,” I said, swirling the pan to keep the heat even. “Amanda Howard, from elementary school.”

  “That’s a blast from the past.” Thomas chopped the salami into tiny pieces. “I haven’t seen her since we were in elementary school. Didn’t she move away?”

  “Yeah, to California.” I filled him in on my conversation with her and the fact that she and her husband had bought the Cabaret.

  “That’s so cool. We’ll have to have a mini reunion.”

  Another knock sounded on the basement door. No one ever used that door. It was located down around the corner from Torte’s main entrance.

  “That’s probably Kerry,” Thomas said.

  “I thought you were passing by.”

  “I was.” He scooped the chopped salami in a pile. “But she knows that I tend to follow my stomach.” He went to open the door for his partner.

  As expected, Detective Kerry stood at the door. “I knew it.” She punched him in the arm. Her long red hair fell loose on her shoulders. She wore a pair of skinny jeans, ankle boots, and a puffy navy jacket. Kerry’s style looked like she belonged in L.A. or New York, not Ashland. “He can’t stay out of the kitchen, can he?”

  I laughed. “It’s true.”

  Detective Kerry and I had been slowly but surely building rapport. I appreciated her dry sense of humor and the fact that she was usually game to tease Thomas.

  “Can I interest you in an Italian omelet?” I asked.

  She breathed in the scent of the freshly chopped basil. “It smells divine in here. How can I resist?”