Bakeshop Mystery 13 - Mocha, She Wrote

by Ellie Alexander

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  Copyright Page

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  Chapter One

  They say that love is the answer. After years of searching for answers about my future and where I was meant to be, I was inclined to believe that statement. My world had expanded dramatically since my husband Carlos had arrived in Ashland. Following a two-year separation we had finally reconciled, and there wasn’t a day that I woke up without a giddy feeling in my stomach. It was almost too good to be true. The pessimist in me worried that something was going to go terribly wrong. All of my dreams had come to fruition. Carlos was in Ashland and managing our growing boutique winery, Uva. Things at our family bakeshop, Torte, were running seamlessly and we had recently opened a seasonal walk-up ice-cream shop, Scoops, where we served luscious hand-churned concretes made with fresh local berries and drizzled with dark chocolate and dulce de leche. As if that wasn’t enough to keep me occupied, Carlos and I were settling into my childhood home, making it our own by installing an outdoor oven and hummingbird feeders in the backyard and hanging collections of photos from our travels together.

  What more could I want? I asked myself as I turned onto the plaza. A lazy spring had given way to a busy summer. It was nearing the end of June, which meant that Ashland’s idyllic downtown was bursting with activity. Tourists had arrived to take in shows at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival; kids lounged in Lithia Park, soaking up the warm sun and a well-deserved break from their studies; adventure lovers waited in line at the outdoor store to take advantage of the region’s abundant outdoor opportunities from rafting on the Rogue River to hiking Grizzly Peak. The eager buzz of activity brought a smile to my face as I walked into Torte.

  The bakeshop sat at the corner of the plaza across from the Lithia bubblers, offering my team and our loyal customers a perfect view of all the action. Our bright red and teal awning, outdoor tables, and window display complete with strings of rainbow bunting, papier-mâché Popsicles, and colorful beach balls gave the space a welcoming vibe. A symphony of delectable flavors greeted me as I stepped inside. Andy and Sequoia, our two top-notch baristas, slung shots of espresso behind the coffee counter. We had positioned our state-of-the-art shiny fire-engine red La Pavoni Italian espresso machine next to the exposed brick wall so that our baristas could chat with customers while grinding beans or frothing milk.

  The long wooden bar transitioned into the pastry case where a line of people waited for one of our summer berry tarts, mango cream buns, or roasted red pepper and turkey sausage breakfast sandwiches oozing with melted manchego cheese. Rosa, who had taken on the role of a woman of many trades, punched orders into our point-of-sale system and doled out chocolate croissants and slices of cinnamon coffee cake. She floated between pastry counter and kitchen most days and was willing to lend a hand wherever needed.

  As was typical, the booths by the front windows were occupied. The same was true for our patio seating—picnic tables with matching bright teal and red sun umbrellas. Finding a spot to linger during the busy season required having an eagle eye. Fortunately we had expanded our seating options with comfy couches and chairs downstairs and additional bistro tables along Ashland Creek on the backside of the building.

  I paused to hold the front door open for a woman balancing a plate of pastries and a steaming mug of coffee. She scanned the busy dining room. I recognized the familiar look.

  “I believe that table outside is just leaving.” I pointed behind us. “If you want to grab it, I’ll have someone come out and wipe it down for you.”

  “Thank you.” She shot me a relieved smile before hurrying outside to snag the table.

  I adjusted the stack of mail beneath my arm and continued inside.

  “Hey boss,” Andy said with a wave as he deftly poured two shots of espresso over a scoop of ice cream. “Is that the mail?”

  I had stopped by the post office on my way back to the bakeshop after delivering a box of bread and cookies to Scoops. “It is, and there just might be something in this stack with your name on it.” I grinned as I handed him a large envelope.

  “It came! It finally came?” Andy’s boyish face broke out into a wide smile that almost immediately turned into a worried scowl. “I don’t know, though. I’m too nervous. I don’t know if I want to look. No. No. I can’t look. I can’t do it.” He clenched his teeth and thrust the envelope to me. “Maybe you should open it.”

  “No way.” I pushed the envelope back across the counter.

  He placed a drink order on the bar and waited for a customer to take her affagato and iced latte before picking up the envelope again. “Ahhhh. Look at my hands.” He held out his trembling fingers. Andy was in his early twenties with broad, muscular shoulders, sandy hair, and height that he was finally beginning to grow into. He had taken on the role of head barista and had been invaluable in getting Scoops up and running. I wasn’t used to seeing him rattled.

  His fingers quaked. “I don’t even know if I can open it with my hands shaking like this. I’m dying to know what’s inside, but then again, what if it’s bad news? It might be bad news, Jules, and I’m not sure if I can handle that right now. I’ve practiced for months for this. If I don’t open the envelope then it’s not a no, right?”

  “But what if it’s a yes? You would never know.” I tapped the envelope. “There’s one easy way to find out.”

  “Okay.” Andy sighed, then ripped the envelope open.

  Sequoia and I waited, watching his face for any indication of whether the news was good or bad while he scanned the contents.

  Andy read the letter with serious intent. After a minute his smile evaporated.

  A sinking sensation swirled in my stomach, and not just because I had already consumed copious amounts of coffee.

  Oh no! He worked so hard for this. I had been sure that he would be selected, I hadn’t even considered the alternative. I pressed my lips together.

  “Well, read it yourself, boss.” He bent his head forward, hunched his shoulders, and offered me the paper. “It’s not good news.”

  Sequoia put her hand on his forearm. “Sorry, Andy. You should have had it. You’re the best barista I’ve ever worked with, and you know that is high praise coming from me.”

  “I know.” He let out another heavy sigh.

  I couldn’t believe it. How had they not chosen Andy? Sequoia was right; he was the best barista I’d ever had the pleasure to call a colleague—and not only in Ashland and the surrounding Rogue Valley. I’d worked with many baristas in my years at sea, and no one had natural talent like Andy. He didn’t have to spend hours laboring over ratios or recipes. His creative palate guided him. I knew without a doubt that one of the reasons for Torte’s success was due to Andy. Locals and tourists returned again and again for his whimsical creations like his chunky monkey coffee, a banana chocolate blended coffee shake, or a simple Americano with his exquisitely blended custom roasts.

>   I glanced at the paper. It took less than a second to realize that Andy was messing with us. The first word on the page was “Congratulations!”

  “Andy!” I swatted him with the paper.

  “What?” Sequoia stared at me with wide emerald eyes.

  “Look.” I handed her the paper. “He’s been selected! Andy’s in!”

  Andy gave us a sheepish grin. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. I had to mess with you, at least for a minute. Blame Carlos. He’s constantly telling us to add more play into our work.”

  Sequoia let out a whoop and began clapping. “Barista Cup, baby!”

  “Congratulations, Andy!” I seconded her applause. “This calls for a celebration. Our own little Andy is going to be competing in the West Coast Barista Cup. Now the pressure’s really on. You have to win. I want a plaque right up there on the wall.” I pointed to a spot on the exposed brick.

  “This is awesome.” Sequoia gave him a fist bump. “You’ve got some serious practicing to do. Isn’t there a crazy time limit on how fast you need to get the judges their drinks?”

  “Yeah. Fifteen minutes—exactly. You have to give the sensory judges a cappuccino, a latte, and a custom signature drink in less than fifteen minutes, all while being judged on your technical skills and explaining the origin of each coffee and your personal connection to the cup.” He stuffed the papers back in the envelope.

  “Sensory judges?” Sequoia asked.

  Andy clutched the letter to his chest. “There are four judges who actually drink your offerings and score them, and then there are two technical judges who watch every move you make while you’re pulling shots and steaming milk.”

  “That sounds like way too much pressure for me.” Sequoia twisted a dreadlock. She was one of our newer hires and was the polar opposite of Andy in nearly every way. She was laid back and exuded a chill vibe with her flowing attire and dreadlocks. Her coffee style included alternative drinks like dirty chai lattes and matcha lavender-infused cold brew.

  Andy could have been a poster boy for dairy farmers with his all-American style. Until recently he had played football at Southern Oregon University, but he decided to opt out of school to focus on his coffee knowledge, improve his latte design skills, and immerse himself in the art of roasting. He tended to push the envelope when it came to pairings but his style was more in line with modern coffee shops and traditional Italian high-end espresso drinks. When he and Sequoia had first started working together it had been a disaster. In fact, at one point I had thought that I might have to let one of them go. But they had worked things out and found common ground. Their unique approaches were actually a beautiful balance.

  “I can’t believe that the competition is here this year,” I said to Andy. “You’re going to have a massive cheer squad.”

  He blushed, his cheeks matching the color of the espresso machine. “Thanks, boss. Sequoia is right. I’m going to have to put some hours in behind the machine to get ready. Don’t worry, I’ll do it on my own time. Off the clock. I mean, in some ways I’m way behind. There are baristas who train year-round for this. I’m going to have to pull all-nighters from now until the start of the Cup, but I swear I won’t let it impact my work here.”

  “No way. You are representing Torte. We want our star barista to shine.” I adjusted the stack of mail under my arm. “Not to mention that I want to sample whatever you’re making. Plus it’s summer. We’re open late anyway. We’ll prop open the front door, and you can give away samples like we did at Scoops. Think of it as part of our summer marketing plan.”

  “Cool. I’m down with that.”

  “I’m heading downstairs. Anything I need to know?”

  “Nope. We’ve got it under control.” Andy shot me a thumbs-up. “When there’s a lull, I have an idea for my signature drink. I’ve been playing around with some new flavors, but I didn’t want to jinx anything until I heard for sure. I’ll bring a sample down for you and everyone else to taste. I want honest feedback though. That’s the only way I’ll improve. If anyone says, ‘It’s great,’ they don’t get to taste anything else I make, got it?”

  “Got it.” I saluted him with two fingers and continued downstairs. The West Coast Barista Cup was a big deal. The event drew the best baristas from the region along with hundreds of coffee enthusiasts. The winner would advance to the U.S. Championships with a chance to compete in the World Barista Cup. There were cash prizes for first, second, and third place, along with bragging rights and the potential for future sponsorships. To my knowledge, no barista in the Rogue Valley had had the honor of competing in the Cup. Andy deserved to be recognized. He had put in a tremendous amount of effort at Torte and I wanted him to know we were all behind him.

  This year The Hills, a swanky mid-century hotel on the east side of town, was hosting the competition. It would take place in two weeks, which meant that I intended to give Andy as much free time as our staffing schedule would allow to prep for the competition. I was thrilled for our young coffee aficionado to get to go head-to-head with some of the top baristas from up and down the West Coast. I was also excited to get to watch the action myself. It had been years since I’d attended a coffee competition. I knew that the industry was constantly evolving, and I couldn’t wait to learn some new techniques and see the latest in brewing and roasting equipment.

  I passed a group of teenagers drinking iced shakes and playing a trivia game in the cozy seating area in the basement next to retro atomic-style fireplace. I said hello and continued into the kitchen where there was a flurry of activity. Sterling, our sous chef, was assembling rows of sandwiches. He spread cranberry orange cream cheese on baguettes and layered them with thin-sliced turkey, tomatoes, lettuce, and Swiss. Marty, our head bread baker, kneaded a vat of dough with his muscular arms. Bethany and Steph, my two cake artists, were piping buttercream onto cookies and cupcakes.

  “How’s it going?” I asked, tossing the mail on the counter.

  “Good. Just prepping our internal order for Scoops. We’ll get these over to the shop before we open,” Sterling replied. He finished assembling a turkey sandwich, then wrapped it in brown paper.

  “Excellent. I stopped by earlier with the pastry order, so that’s waiting for you.” We had limited hours at the new walk-up ice-cream shop. I had hired four high school and college students to run the seasonal counter. Unlike Torte, we offered a small menu at Scoops. In addition to our concretes—our version of gorgeously creamy ice creams—we served cold brew and coffee shakes and pre-made sandwiches and pastries. Thus far it had been a great addition to the bakeshop. Not a day went by where there wasn’t a line of customers waiting for a dish of our marionberry concrete or a peanut butter blossom shake.

  “Did I hear excitement upstairs?” Marty asked. “I could have sworn I heard happy applause.”

  “You did.” I glanced above us. “Hang on a sec. Let me get Andy. I want him to be the one to share the news.”

  I hurried back upstairs and yanked Andy away from the coffee bar. “You have to tell everyone.”

  He pretended to be embarrassed, but I could tell he was proud of his accomplishment from his wide toothy smile, as he should be.

  “Andy has a big announcement, everyone,” I said, dragging him into the kitchen.

  “It’s not that big, boss.” Andy brushed off my compliment. “I am psyched, though, because I just learned that I’m going to be competing in the West Coast Barista Cup in a couple of weeks.”

  Everyone clapped and cheered.

  “Congrats, man.” Sterling patted him on the back.

  “That is a big deal,” Marty concurred. “I attended the competition when it was in San Fran a few years ago and the judges were cutthroat.” He shivered. “They were so tough, they were scary.”

  Andy nodded. “I know. It’s intense. I was just reading through the rules and regulations and Benson Vargas, who is the guy in the world of coffee, is the top judge again this year. I’ve heard he’s super intense and he’s one of the
managing members of the entire competition, so there’s a touch of pressure there, no problem.” He stuck out his tongue and rolled his eyes.

  “Ohhhh, I remember him.” Marty let out a visible shudder before wiping flour from his hands on a dish towel. “He made one of the competitors cry, and I heard one of the baristas claim that she’d rather die than ever have to make a drink for him again.”

  “Great.” Andy clutched his neck. “I’m toast.”

  “No, no, I don’t mean to scare you.” Marty sounded genuinely concerned. “You make the best coffee in the world. You’ll have Benson Vargas and all of the other judges eating out of your hands like puppies.”

  “Hope so.” Andy crossed his fingers and returned to the coffee bar.

  I wondered if Marty was exaggerating. I was thrilled for Andy, but I hoped that his coffee dreams weren’t about to get crushed before they’d had a chance to come true.

  Chapter Two

  For the next two weeks we rallied around our young barista. Andy spent nearly every waking hour at the espresso machine. My staff and I reaped the benefits of his laser-focused training. There wasn’t a minute that went by when there wasn’t a cappuccino, latte, or iced mocha waiting at the coffee bar. He practiced at least a dozen different combinations for the signature drink that he would present to the judges. The running favorite amongst our small but mighty team at Torte was a hot honey latte made with a touch of house-made orange syrup, spicy honey, flaked sea salt, fresh orange zest, and bitter chocolate shavings.

  “I think this is the winner,” I said to Andy the morning before the first day of competition. “The spicy honey paired with the orange and bitter chocolate is pure magic. I’m not kidding, I had a dream about this coffee last night. It might be my favorite of all time.”

  “You think? I don’t know. I’m wondering if it needs a touch more salt? Maybe I should do a dark chocolate with a hint of sea salt in addition to the flaked salt?” He pounded his forehead with his palm. “No, no. I already tried that and it was too much salt. I’m losing my mind. I had been taking notes, but now I can’t even read my own handwriting.” He pointed to a notebook filled with milk-to-coffee ratios. It could have belonged to a mad scientist with its extensive charts, drawings, temperature markings, and milk-frothing times.