Bakeshop Mystery 13 - Mocha, She Wrote

by Ellie Alexander

  “I think bloodshed might happen next,” Mom said under her breath.

  James adjusted his lanyard. “We’ll take a thirty-minute break to get set up. Wander the grounds, enjoy our complimentary pastries, and see you back here for espresso shots, straight up.”

  Piper had gathered the eight remaining contestants. I could hear her gentle voice trying to soothe nerves. Sammy wasn’t having any of it. She glared at Piper and kept shooting her eyes toward Benson. He seemed to be enjoying her irritation.

  Every time she looked at him, he would salute her with one finger and a smirk.

  “That is the shocker of the century,” the woman sitting next to me said. “Sammy has never finished in third place. Never.”

  “She doesn’t look happy about it,” I noted.

  Sammy wasn’t listening to Piper. Her hands were on her hips her as she stared Benson down. The caustic judge didn’t flinch. He glowered right back at her. The camera zoomed in on Sammy’s face. Her cold, hard eyes bared into Benson’s face. If she noticed the camera, she wasn’t deterred. A deep blue vein pulsed in her forehead as they continued to stare each other down.

  “No. If I were Benson, I would be worried about her spiking my next drink. Do you see the nasty looks she’s giving him? I wouldn’t want to be in that line of fire.” Mom cringed.

  While Sammy fumed, Diaz bounced around his station like the disc jockey spinning tunes. Andy kept his head down. He didn’t make eye contact with his fellow baristas or anyone in the audience.

  Mom and I sipped our cappuccinos. June went for another walk to get a cup of coffee. She returned shortly before round two was due to start. Sterling and Bethany showed up at the same time.

  “Hey! How’s our guy doing?” Sterling asked. He wore a pair of black jeans and a thin gray hoodie with the sleeves rolled up.

  Bethany pointed to her T-shirt. “What do you think? I wore it for Andy.” The red tee had white lettering and a silhouette of a coffee cup that read I Like You a Latte.

  Mom laughed. “It’s perfect.”

  The women next to us had moved to chairs on the other side of the room so they could get a better view of Diaz. “Are those seats free?” Bethany asked.

  “Yep.” I waited for them to sit.

  “Don’t keep us in suspense, Jules, how did Andy do? He’s still up there, so he must have done okay, right?” Sterling rubbed his hands on his jeans.

  “He finished in fourth place, which is good for the first round.” I told them about the surprise third-place finish for Sammy and that Diaz was currently in the lead.

  “That guy is super cocky.” Bethany stuck her tongue out. “I don’t like his energy.”

  “You should have seen the women sitting next to us earlier,” I said, nodding to the group in their matching shirts. “They are his super fans.”

  “They can have him.” Bethany made a gagging motion. “He’s gross.”

  I didn’t disagree with her assessment. There was something off-putting about Diaz. Maybe it was that my style tended to be more inward. For me, baking was therapy. It was about getting in touch with my innermost thoughts and immersing myself in the sensory experience. Over the years, I had known chefs who saw their role as performer. Diaz fell into that category.

  “How are things at Torte?” I asked.

  “Good. Uneventful,” Sterling replied. “We prepped everything for Scoops. The freezer is stocked with new concretes. Bread deliveries are out. Marty and Rosa have things running smoothly.”

  “Excellent.” Not that I expected anything different, but I was glad to hear it.

  A few minutes later, James returned with the mic to kick off the next round. “Are you all feeling caffeinated? If not, you’re going to be by the end of this round. Our talented baristas have been tasked with delivering three unique espressos to our panel of judges—they’ll be looking for baristas to put a whole latte of love into their full-flavored, concentrated espresso shots with a lovely crema on top.”

  Most customers who walked into the bakeshop had no idea what went into pulling a perfect espresso shot. It was so much more than simply grinding beans and turning on a machine. Andy’s technique involved measuring the beans down to the gram before adding them to the grinder. He ground them until they resembled the texture of granulated sugar. Grinding the beans too fine would make the shot taste bitter and burnt. Whereas a coarse grind would mean the shot wouldn’t extract properly, causing it to be watery and weak.

  The way a shot was tamped into the portafilter could also greatly affect its flavor. Proper tamping ensured uniformity and consistency when water was forced through the shot. The next step was to warm the shot glasses and start the brew. Andy, like the rest of the competitors, held a timer in his hand. He would meticulously watch the time, shooting for an extraction time of between twenty and thirty seconds.

  From our vantage point we could see the brown foam beginning to pour in a single line. The goal was to create a golden crema floating on the top of a dark rich shot.

  “It smells amazing in here,” Bethany commented as she took dozens of pictures on her phone. “I’m going to be livestreaming later. I told our followers I would give them an up-close look at all the action.”

  Bethany had taken over management of our social media accounts. I readily admitted that technology wasn’t my strong suit. Having spent over a decade at sea, I had missed the trend—and that was fine with me. Fortunately, Bethany had an eye for design. She had quickly amassed a nice local and even regional following with her drool-worthy pictures of our pastries and specialty cakes.

  For this round, competitors had fifteen minutes to pull shots for each of the judges while again telling a complete story and keeping watch over the time.

  “On deck first, we have our local boy Andy.” James shot his finger at Andy. “Are you ready?”

  “Yep. Can you start the time?” Andy asked. He flew through the task as the large red digital clock counted down.

  “I’ve stored my beans in an air-tight container and will pull the shots immediately after grinding,” he spoke, addressing the judges in a quick, almost breathless tones. “I’m using a scale to achieve the perfect ratio of eighteen grams for each extraction.”

  I wondered if he was talking fast because of nerves or if he’d already sampled too many shots. Coffee novices would probably be overwhelmed by Andy’s tech speak, but Piper took furious notes, and nodded her head with approval.

  As with the first round, once he finished pulling shots his story shifted and became more personal. “Why does this matter? Could I simply hit an automatic button on the espresso machine? Sure, but that’s not what coffee is to me. Think of the word we use to describe the process. ‘Extraction.’ We’re extracting a piece of ourselves. The time, consideration, and thought I put into the process is revealed in the tasting experience. It’s humbling to be able to serve our customers something so intimate and interconnected.”

  June dabbed her eyes with a paper napkin.

  Watching him pour his heart into each step touched me. I studied the judges to see if they were moved by his words. Benson’s permanent scowl appeared to be frozen on his lips, but Piper gave Andy an encouraging smile and jotted down more notes.

  We cheered as he placed his last shot on the tasting tray and wiped his hands on his apron.

  Piper examined Andy’s final product, kneeling and bending over the table to study his espresso shots from every angle. She made a few final notes then moved on to Diaz’s table.

  His style was polar opposite from Andy’s. “Hey, DJ, can you crank my tunes? Vibe check. Yeah, we be vibin’ now!” He pumped his fists in the air as dance music blasted. His approach seemed to be to infuse as much high energy into the process as possible. He swayed to the beat as he adjusted the machine and flirted with the crowd and Piper.

  Last up was Sammy. She reminded me of a ballet dancer as she stretched her arms and stood on her tiptoes to remove her coffee beans from a cooler of dry ice. She was putti
ng on a performance for sure. The smoky steam from the dry ice wafted over the espresso machine while she crafted a pristine shot.

  When Piper made her way to Sammy’s table, Diaz huddled together with Andy. I wished the music wasn’t so loud. They talked in hushed tones. I wondered what Diaz was saying. He pointed to Andy’s supply station. Andy shot him a thumbs-up and scurried to scoop some of his materials—spoons, dish towels, and frothing pitchers beneath his table.

  As with the first round, as soon as the final buzzer sounded, volunteers took the shots to the judges’ table. The results didn’t take as long to tally, since each judge only had one drink to sample.

  “Okay coffee connoisseurs, how’s everyone doing?” James jumped from side to side as he prepared to deliver the judges’ results. I wondered how many shots of espresso he had sampled.

  He waved a sealed envelope in his hand. “I have the names of the contestants moving on to round three right here, but you all don’t want me to read them, do you?”

  The group of super fans fawning over Diaz booed.

  James ripped open the envelope. After eliminating two more contestants he read the top six names. “Keeping her spot in third place, we have Sammy Pressman!”

  Sammy slammed a portafilter on the table. “No way! This competition is rigged.”

  Benson didn’t shift a muscle. He kept the same evil sneer on his face.

  James cleared his throat and tried to move on. “In second place we have our boy wonder from Ashland—the one and only Andy!”

  Sterling, Mom, Bethany, June, and I jumped up and cheered.

  Andy beamed.

  “That’s right, folks, that means holding strong in the number-one spot is Diaz Mendez!”

  Diaz gave the crowd his signature flex.

  “I want a revote,” Sammy said, holding her hand in the air. “Someone is cheating.” She glared at Andy and stood on her tiptoes to peer at his station as if expecting to see evidence of dishonest coffee practices.

  That was quite an accusation. Where was that was coming from?

  “Why would she say such a thing?” June sounded dismayed.

  James let out an uncomfortable chuckle. “Folks, I warned you things might get heated. They always do when coffee is involved.”

  Sammy pounded the heavy metal tool on the table. “This is totally rigged. Everyone knows that Benson has it out for me! Someone is cheating! I want a re-do!”

  Piper stepped up to the microphone. She whispered something in James’s ear.

  James nodded. “Alright folks, I’ve just gotten word that lunch is ready. Please make your way to the east ballroom for a wonderful lunch spread, and we’ll see you back here at one o’clock for today’s final round.”

  No one moved. I had a feeling that everyone was as stunned as we were with Sammy’s reaction.

  “Seriously, folks, you don’t want to miss what my culinary team has put together. Remember, lunch is complimentary with your ticket, so go load up your plates.”

  People began to shuffle out of the ballroom.

  We waited for the line to thin.

  I watched as Sammy waved her arms, frantically pointing from Andy to Benson. Did she think that Andy was cheating?

  Piper tried to calm her down.

  Benson continued to lean back in his chair with the same unnerving smile.

  “No!” Sammy shouted. “I know what’s going on here and I’m not going to take it. As far as I’m concerned, Benson can go jump off a cliff and die.” She stormed out of the ballroom.

  “Whoa. Someone needs to lay off the caffeine,” Sterling commented.

  “Yeah,” I agreed as we headed out for lunch. Internally I was rattled. Was Sammy accusing Andy of cheating? And what was the deal with Benson? Putting on a steel exterior was one thing, but he seemed like he had a personal vendetta against Sammy. I had a bad feeling about how the afternoon was going to play out.

  Chapter Six

  Lunch was delicious. The Hills kitchen staff had marinated tender pork with cilantro, onions, garlic, peppers, and pineapple juice. The pork had been grilled and served in corn tortillas with pinto beans, cilantro lime rice, farmer’s cheese, and fresh pineapple slices.

  “I’m going to run and check in with Andy,” I said to Mom, Sterling, June, and Bethany after polishing off two tacos. “Unless he’s had a complete shift from yesterday, I bet he hasn’t eaten anything.”

  “I’m sure he hasn’t,” June agreed. “I had to force a piece of toast on him on his way out the door this morning.”

  “Good idea,” Mom said. “If he hasn’t, we can fix him a plate.”

  “I’ll be back in a few,” I said and headed for the ballroom. On my way, I noticed James having what appeared to be a fierce conversation with someone in the alcove. James had his back to me and his body blocked my view of whoever he was speaking to. What was apparent, however, was that the conversation wasn’t going well.

  “You’re not going to get away with this!” James threatened. He was naturally thin, but he made his stance wide to take up space.

  I froze.

  “You have ruined one too many lives. I’m not letting you do it again.” James lunged forward.

  “Nothing has changed, has it?” Benson stepped to the side. “You’re the same whiny complainer you’ve always been.”

  I tried not to gasp.

  James grabbed Benson’s shoulder. “I’m serious. You’re not getting away with this.”

  Benson threw James off of him, then gave him a condescending grin. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.” He tossed his head back and laughed before stomping down the hall in the opposite direction.

  James just stared after him.

  I hesitated. There was no easy way to make a graceful exit, unless I shuffled backward down the hallway.

  Once Benson had exited the hotel through the far door, James turned around and spotted me. “Hey, I recognize you. You own Torte, right?”

  “Guilty as charged.” I raised my hands in surrender.

  He came closer to shake my hand. “James—I manage food and beverage here at The Hills. You are a legend in these parts. I’ve seen you at a couple of the chamber meetings, but never had the chance to meet you in person.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Jules.”

  “You must be here to cheer on your barista. He’s doing really well, especially for a first-timer.” He continued to shake my hand, causing the lanyard around his neck to swing wildly. He finally let go and grabbed the lanyard. I wasn’t surprised that James had once competed in the Barista Cup. His hipster skinny jeans and narrow goatee looked the part of coffee counterculture.

  If he had suspected that I had overheard his argument with Benson, he gave no indication.

  “Did you catch any of the first rounds?” He pointed to the ballroom.

  “Yes. It’s been amazing.” I didn’t mention Sammy’s outburst, but I was curious about what I had overheard. “Benson is quite the character. I was worried at the beginning that Andy might have been out of the competition before it had even started.”

  James forced a smile. “Don’t give Benson a minute of your time. He feeds on the attention. This is his thing. I’m convinced that he must spend weeks prepping insults to hurl at the contestants.”

  “Do you know him well?”

  “No. I don’t know him. Not at all. Thank goodness. Who would want to be associated with that guy? I feel sorry for Piper, though.” He let out a quick high-pitched laugh. James seemed flustered as he unbuttoned the top button on his shirt, then buttoned it again. “I only met him a couple days ago when he and the other judges arrived. I’m sure you’ve had your fair share of chefs like Benson in your career. I could tell from the moment I met him that he had an ego the size of Texas.”

  Was James lying? From what I had just heard, it didn’t add up that he and Benson had just recently met.

  James tapped a smartwatch on his wrist. “Sorry to cut this short, but I need to go let the competitors k
now that the next round is going to start in twenty.”

  “I’ll follow you in. I wanted to check in with Andy and make sure he ate lunch.”

  “None of them ever remember to eat,” James said with a laugh. “They’re too jacked up on caffeine and nervous energy.”

  We went into the ballroom together. The DJ had started the next playlist, and a few of the judges, including Piper, were chatting at the head table.

  “I should go reconvene with the team,” James said, taking his leave.

  There was no sign of Andy. But something was definitely amiss. Diaz had his headphones on and his eyes were focused on an espresso machine. The only problem was—not his machine. He stood at Andy’s station. What was he doing?

  He must have felt my eyes on him because he looked up, met my gaze, and immediately jumped away from Andy’s machine. He straightened his shoulders and danced his way back to his own spot, as if nothing had happened.

  A strange sensation swirled in my stomach. Had he been tampering with Andy’s espresso machine?

  Jules, you’re being paranoid.

  The morning’s events must have been getting to me.

  I approached the competitor’s area. Diaz ignored me as he jammed to his tunes.

  Andy’s station was neatly prepped and ready for the final round with bottles of spicy honey and ceramic tasting mugs lined in perfect rows. Upon closer inspection, I noticed something else. Dirt? Was that dirt on his table or maybe coffee grounds? It wasn’t like Andy to have a messy work area. I resisted the urge to sweep the dirt or grounds away. I didn’t want to accidentally do anything that might interfere with the competition.

  “You haven’t seen Andy by chance?” I asked Diaz.

  “Huh?” He lifted one side of his headphones away from his ear.

  “I was wondering if you’ve seen Andy.”